But her fears were misplaced. When Mr. Guildford came the next day, Geneviève made herself as charming as ever. She smiled and blushed more than she talked, it is true; but once or twice Cicely caught Mr. Guildford’s eyes resting upon her in a way which awoke a new feeling in her mind. “Does he really care for her?” she said to herself uneasily. “He, so clever and good. Is she worthy of it?”
She felt more than ever that she could not understand Geneviève. There were times at which it seemed to her that a creature more artless and ingenuous could not exist—that the feeling of bewilderment about her must arise entirely from her own in ability to be carelessly, childishly transparent like this sunny little fairy. Then again a sudden glimpse of something very like calculating selfishness on Geneviève’s part would startle her into perplexity again, and then would follow a fit of disgust at her own suspiciousness.
“Do you understand Geneviève, Trevor?” she asked Mr. Fawcett one day. It was the very day before the ball. They had been at luncheon at Lingthurst, discussing and admiring the all but completed arrangements, and Trevor had walked home with Cicely. Geneviève had been invited to come with them, but for some reason that Cicely was at a loss to explain, had refused to do so, and had driven home with her aunt.
“Do you understand her?” Miss Methvyn repeated, for Mr. Fawcett had not seemed to hear her question the first time.
Trevor started. “What are you saying, Cicely?” he exclaimed. “Do I understand Geneviève? Of course, I do. You are always diving into unknown depths or soaring into the clouds, my dear child. Please remember that other people find it fatiguing. You must be at a loss for a subject of speculation if you are going to make one of poor Geneviève—she is just a sweet, simple little creature, very affectionate, and not very wise, and perhaps a little vain; which is certainly excusable. There is not much to understand about her.”
“Is that it?” said Cicely thoughtfully. She had listened attentively to what Trevor said, looking up into his face with a questioning, somewhat anxious expression in her eyes. Somehow it annoyed Trevor. He began kicking the pebbles on the path impatiently. But just for the moment, Cicely was too intent on what she was saying to observe his irritation.
“I wonder if it is so,” she repeated consideringly. “Sometimes I feel as if she were perfectly artless and sweet and unselfish. And then she says and does things that I don’t like, or rather that I don’t understand. To-day for instance.”
“What did she do to-day?” said Trevor sharply. “I declare Cicely you are just as bad as other women after all—everlastingly picking holes in each other—especially if “each other” has the misfortune to be bewitchingly pretty!”
The sneering tone as well as the unkindness of the speech wounded Cicely to the quick. She turned her face away, and walked on without speaking.
“Cicely,” said Mr. Fawcett in a minute or two.