“I suppose so,” he said. “I must do whatever you tell me.” He lifted his head and gazed absently out of the window. Before his eyes lay Cicely’s little rose-garden. The roses were nearly over now; the gardeners were at work removing the bright coloured bedding-out plants—the geraniums and calceolarias and lobelias which had made it so gay a few weeks ago. A new thought struck Trevor.
“Cicely,” he said wistfully, “my father meant to have bought Greystone privately. No one need have known the particulars of your affairs.”
“I know,” said Cicely. Her lip quivered, and she turned her head away.
“Cicely,” he said again, this time even more timidly, “have you thought of your mother?”
“Yes,” replied Cicely, “I have thought of everything.”
She faced him as she spoke. Her tone was firm and resolute, though her face was white and set. Then Trevor gave in at last, and knew that his fate was decided. And he knew, too, that it was his own doing.
Geneviève’s letter requesting her parents’ permission to return home at once, was not only never sent—it was never written.
That same afternoon the girl was sitting in lonely misery in her room when Cicely knocked at the door, and asked leave to come in.
“Have you written home yet, Geneviève?” she inquired, for her cousin was again seated by the writing-table with paper and pens before her.
“No,” she replied; “I thought you would be angry if I did.”