“I am not dictating anything to Geneviève,” said Cicely more gently; “she must judge for herself. As to my own feeling about it, I confess to you, Trevor, I would have much preferred not taking part in anything of the kind at present, but—”
“But what?” said Mr. Fawcett.
“If you wish it, I will try to dismiss the feeling I have,” she answered.
“If I wish it. Cicely, you speak as if I were an unfeeling tyrant. It is not fair to me, upon my soul it isn’t,” said Trevor, working himself up into vexation. “No one felt more for you than I did last spring, but you cannot shut yourself up for ever.”
“It is not only that,” said Cicely. “I have other feelings—my father’s state of health, my having to leave him so soon—all these things make me sad. But I dare say it is wrong to feel so. Dear Trevor, don’t be vexed with me. I will try and enter into it cheerfully. If I had been with you and could have talked it over with you and your mother before, it would have been all right.”
“I wish you had been with us when it was first proposed. You don’t know how I wished for you at Eastbourne, Cicely,” exclaimed Trevor.
Cicely looked up at him affectionately. For the moment their old, happy relations seemed to have returned—the vague, painful feeling “that Trevor was different,” which of late had so often troubled her, melted away. And for the rest of that day Cicely’s brow looked clear, and her eyes had a smile in them.
But Geneviève’s brilliant spirits seemed already to have received a check. She was tired, she told Cicely, she thought one always felt so the day after a railway journey more than at the time.
“Are you too tired to talk about what you will wear at the Lingthurst ball?” said Cicely brightly. “Mother wants us to have very pretty dresses, and I am going to order them from town; so we must have a grand consultation, Geneviève.”
Geneviève looked up in amazement.