She rose from her chair as she spoke. As she passed her mother, she stooped and kissed Mrs. Methvyn’s soft pale face—the lines had grown much deeper and more numerous on it of late—the roundness and comeliness were fast disappearing.
“Don’t worry yourself about Geneviève, dear mother,” she said. “Even if she leaves you, you have me, haven’t you?”
“Yes, dear,” answered her mother. “I should not want her if I could always have you! But, of course, it is not a question of wanting her. It is so vexing to think of poor Caroline’s disappointment; it is so utterly unexpected. I do not understand the child at all; she is not the least like her mother.”
Cicely made her way up to her cousin’s room. Geneviève was already seated at her little writing-table—pens, paper, and ink, spread out before her.
“Geneviève,” said Cicely. “You have made my mother very uneasy. She is most sorry on your mother’s account. The letter you are going to write will distress Madame Casalis very much. I want you not to send it—at least not to-day.”
“But I will send it,” said Geneviève angrily. “Why should you prevent it? It is best for me to go, I tell you,” her voice softened a little. “You don’t know—” she went on, “and if you did, you, so cold, so réglée, how could you understand?”
Cicely looked at her with a strange mixture of pity and contempt. “No,” she said, “perhaps I could not. But still Geneviève, for my mother’s sake—I am determined to spare her all the annoyance I can—I ask you not to write that hasty letter about going home, to your mother to-day.”
“Why should I not?” said Geneviève.
“Because I tell you it is better not,” replied Cicely. “And you know I always have spoken the truth to you, Geneviève.”
Geneviève looked cowed and frightened.