Geneviève’s eyes followed her aunt’s, but again something in Cicely’s expression roused her latent obstinacy and defiance.
“I am sorry,” she said slowly. “I am sorry, but it must be. I cannot stay here. Give me leave then, my aunt, to write to my mother about my return home.”
“I told you before, you must write what you choose,” said Mrs. Methvyn coldly.
And Geneviève left the room without saying more.
“Do you understand her, Cicely?” said Mrs. Methvyn when she was again alone with her daughter. “Do you in the least understand what has put this into her head? She is evidently very unhappy. Surely,” she went on as a new idea struck her, “surely it cannot have anything to do with Mr. Guildford?”
“No,” replied Cicely, almost, in spite of herself, amused at her mother’s recurrence to her favourite scheme; “no. I am perfectly certain it has nothing whatever to do with him.”
“Then, what can it have to do with?”
“She is certainly not happy,” answered Cicely, evasively. “I am sorry for her.”
“Do you think you could find out more, if you saw her alone?” said Mrs. Methvyn uneasily.
“I will go up and speak to her if you like,” said Cicely.