Cicely did not contradict her, and Geneviève proceeded to discuss the important question of her dress. She warmed into enthusiasm on the subject, quite astonishing her cousin by her display of millinery lore and perfect acquaintance with the requirements of the occasion.
“I can hardly believe you have never been at balls, and all sorts of things of the kind, Geneviève,” she exclaimed at last. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“There was a class at the pension where I went. I used to watch them and then try by myself afterwards,” said Geneviève. “It is quite simple. Mr. Fawcett says I dance very well.”
“Trevor!” exclaimed Cicely. “How does he know?”
“Oh! we only tried once—là-bas—at Eastbourne, I mean, when the band was playing a waltz before our windows,” said Geneviève hastily. “Tell me, Cicely,” she went on quickly, “who will there be at the Lingthurst ball that I shall know. Will Mr. Guildford be there?”
“No, I am sure he will not,” replied Cicely. “He has other things to do.”
“But he comes here very often. He can not be very busy,” pursued Geneviève. “My aunt tells me he has been here three—four times in the week.”
“He doesn’t come here for pleasure—it is perfectly different,” answered Cicely coldly.
“Is it? Ah! yes, I see. He comes here but as my uncle’s doctor,” said Geneviève so innocently that Cicely felt ashamed of the slight feeling of annoyance which her cousin’s remarks aroused in her.
“I wonder if she has heard Trevor speak of Mr. Guildford in that foolish way,” she thought to herself. “Trevor should be careful. Geneviève does not understand—she will be treating Mr. Guildford as if he were beneath her.”