In his turn Mr. Fawcett was set at a disadvantage. “You know how,” he said, “by refusing to see me, of course. Who should be as near you as I, in trouble?”
“I told you in the note I sent you yesterday why I did not ask you to come sooner,” said Cicely.
“No, you didn’t. At least you gave no proper reason,” answered Trevor. “I didn’t understand what you meant in the least, and I don’t want to understand it. You have got some fancy in your head that has no foundation whatever, and I don’t want to hear anything about it.”
“But you must,” said Cicely very gravely. “Trevor, did you not understand what I meant? Do you not know now that I meant that—that everything must be over between us?”
“Cicely!” exclaimed Trevor, “Cicely! You cannot mean what you say.”
There was a ring of pain in his voice, and his face grew pale. Cicely began to find her task harder than she had anticipated.
“Yes,” she said sadly, “I do mean it. I must mean it.”
Her way of expressing herself seemed to Mr. Fawcett to savour of relenting.
“No, you don’t; you mustn’t,” he persisted. “I did not think you attached so much importance to mere outward circumstances—accidents, in fact. You cannot mean that on account of what has happened lately you are going to throw me over? Such a reason is unworthy of you, Cicely?”
Cicely looked perplexed. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What do you think is my reason?”