“Who can that be?” exclaimed Geneviève.
“The telegram,” said Cicely. “I must go and see if it is.”
“Stay a moment. I can tell you,” said Geneviève.
One of the windows of the room looked to the front, but the sill was high and narrow. She drew a chair forward and stepped up on to it. Cicely watched her in astonishment.
“What are you doing, Geneviève?” she exclaimed. “You can’t see anything from there. You forget the porch.”
“Ah! but I can,” replied Geneviève triumphantly. She was by this time mounted on the sill, craning her neck round in a peculiar fashion. “You forget there is a window in the side of the porch. From here, when I put my head so, I can see who stands at the door—voilà! I found this out the first days I was here. Now I see. No, Cicely, it is not the boy from the station. It is a tall figure, a gentleman. Can it be Mr. Fawcett?”
She turned round with eager inquiry.
“No,” replied Cicely, “I don’t expect him to-day. Do come down, Geneviève. It would look so strange if any of them saw you climbing up there.”
She spoke rather coldly. Geneviève’s conduct jarred upon her. She only waited till the little lady had accomplished her descent in safety, and then went downstairs, to satisfy herself of the correctness of her cousin’s information.
She was not long left in doubt. Parker was coming in search of her—Mr. Guildford was in the library and had asked for her.