“What letters? He never told me about them,” said Cicely.
“You would not have understood them. I do not. I only know they were about money matters,” replied Mrs. Methvyn vaguely.
“Money matters,” said Cicely. “Oh! he really should not trouble himself about things of that kind.”
She spoke more cheerfully. There was a certain relief in being able to name a cause for her father’s depression. And to her happy experience the expression “money matters” bore no terrible significance. She was only thankful that his anxiety arose from no more important cause.
“No; I wish he would not,” sighed Mrs. Methvyn.
“Well, Mr. Guildford will be here to-morrow, and then we can talk it over with him, and make papa do what we tell him,” said Cicely brightly.
She was leaving the room when her mother recalled her.
“Cicely,” she said mysteriously, “do you know that there was something very odd in that young man’s manner this afternoon?”
“How? what do you mean, mother?” replied Cicely. “You speak as if he were going out of his mind.”
“Nonsense, my dear, you know quite well what I mean,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “I really do believe he has got something in his head about Geneviève. It was after he had seen her in the garden that he came in and said he must go home at once.”