“Yes, mother ordered both Geneviève’s and mine expressly for to-night,” said Cicely.
“Ah! yes. Yes, I can see it is new now. Those good dresses, you know, never do look quite so brilliant a white as more fragile materials. And I was thinking of your trousseau, you know, my dear. It is hardly worth while for you to get any more new dresses now.”
“No,” said Cicely quietly.
“What is Geneviève’s dress?” continued Lady Frederica, “tarletane?”
“No, tulle, tulle over—” Cicely was beginning, but just then Mr. Fawcett came up.
“Mother,” he said, “people are beginning to come. You mustn’t stay any longer gossiping in that corner, do you hear, my lady?” Lady Frederica laughed. “Impertinent boy!” she said, rising as she spoke. “Where shall I find you, Cicely?” continued Trevor, “We must be ready when the music begins, to set all the young people agoing. Dances are events, at this season, and these country girls have no idea of wasting time.”
“I shall stay here,” said Cicely, “I shall be ready when you come for me.”
“All right,” replied Trevor, as he went off with his mother on his arm.
Cicely remained in her corner, watching the guests as they began to pour in. Now and then she came forward a little to shake hands with such of her acquaintances as caught sight of her, or to introduce her cousin, who was standing at a little distance, to some of her parents’ more intimate friends who had not yet happened to meet her.
“How lovely Miss Methvyn’s French cousin is! I did not think she was that sort of girl. We heard she was the daughter of a poor French pasteur,” an “how ill poor Miss Methvyn is looking herself!” were the universal remarks on the appearance of the two cousins. “It is the first time Miss Methvyn has been anywhere since the little Forrester boy’s death, you know,” said some kind-hearted girl. Cicely overheard the words, and after that it seemed to her that there was unusual gentleness in the manners and voices of those whom she spoke to, or to whose inquiries about her father she replied. She was glad to think so.