Geneviève was excited, but not happy. Some closeness of observation is, however, required to discriminate between the two conditions, and this neither of her companions was this morning sufficiently at leisure to bestow upon her. So, “poor Geneviève is full of her ball. I hope she will enjoy it,” thought Mrs. Methvyn; and “Geneviève cannot have meant what she said yesterday. It must just have been one of her childish little fits of temper, not worth noticing,” was the decision Cicely arrived at.
“Your father is very anxious for his letters this morning,” said Mrs. Methvyn, as they were sitting at breakfast. “I hope there will be nothing wrong in them—nothing to upset him, when he seems so much better.”
Just as she spoke the letter-bag was brought in. Mrs. Methvyn opened it.
“Two for you, Cicely,” she said, as she distributed the budget; “one for Geneviève, three for your father, all business letters I fear.” She looked at them anxiously. “I wish we could keep them till Mr. Guildford comes.”
“It would be no use. Papa would be sure to ask for them,” said Cicely decidedly. “Give them to me, mother; I will take them up to him myself.”
“Is Mr. Guildford coming to-day?” said Geneviève in surprise, as her cousin left the room.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Methvyn; “he promised yesterday, when he had to leave in such a hurry, that he would come again to-day.”
“Oh!” said Geneviève. Then, fancying her aunt looked at her curiously, “I thought that he was so very busy,” she added confusedly.
Cicely meanwhile was knocking at her father’s door. Her first tap was unnoticed. She repeated it.
“Come in,” said Colonel Methvyn’s voice. To Cicely it sounded very weak and feeble. “Oh! is it you, my dear?” he exclaimed when he saw her. “I thought it was Barry with the letters.”