“So you have been out, my dear?” said Mrs. Methvyn kindly. “Have you had a nice walk?”
“It is very cold,” replied the girl, shivering a little, and going nearer to the fire.
She still had her hat and cloak on, and the light in the room was not very bright. But now, something in her voice struck both Cicely and her mother as unusual. It sounded faint and toneless.
“You have not caught cold, I hope?” said Mrs. Methvyn anxiously. She was conscious that she had not given much attention to her cousin’s daughter of late, and a touch of self-reproach made itself felt.
“No, thank you; I have not caught cold,” said Geneviève. Then she came a step or two nearer to where her aunt and cousin were sitting, and they, looking at her, saw that she was very pale, and that her eyes were red and swollen with crying.
“Aunt,” she said suddenly, and with a something of dignity in her manner, new to her. “Aunt, you have been very good for me. I thank you much, very much, for your kindness. I shall always thank you. But I want you to let me go home now, home to Hivèritz, to my mother. Please let me go; I can make the voyage by myself alone, perfectly well. Please let me go. To-morrow, or in two or three days at the latest.”
Mrs. Methvyn looked at her in astonishment.
“Geneviève, what is the matter?” she exclaimed. “What has happened to put such an extraordinary idea into your head? Go home alone! Nonsense, you know such a thing is impossible. You must be reasonable, my dear, and tell me what has made you unhappy. I can see you have been crying.”
“Nothing has happened,” replied Geneviève. “It is only quite simply that I want to go home.”
“But you cannot go home all of a sudden in that way,” persisted Mrs. Methvyn. “If there were no other reason against it, the appearance of it at such a time would be an objection. You should consider that, my dear. I have a great many troubles just now, Geneviève. I think you should try not to add to them. And it is plain that something has put you out this morning.”