“I heard that you were over-working yourself,” said Cicely.
“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Crichton. “It was not India, it was nothing but overwork, and it will be the same thing again if you don’t take care. He will never be able to use his eyes very much,” she added, turning to Cicely.
A look of pain crossed Mr. Guildford’s face.
Cicely began to think it true that Mrs. Crichton was “very stupid.”
“Not for a long time, I dare say,” she said quickly. “But I have always heard that rest does wonders in such cases. And that reminds me,” she went on, “will you show me exactly how you want these papers done?”
Mr. Guildford had forgotten all about the papers. Now he looked up with some embarrassment. “I could not,” he began, but Cicely interrupted him.
“You thought of letting a stranger do it,” she said. “Why then not me? I have very little occupation here; it would be a real pleasure to me.”
She spoke simply but earnestly, and Mr. Guildford made no further objection. He took up the papers and pointed out Bessie’s mistakes. Then came a moment in which Mrs. Crichton left the room in search of another manuscript. Cicely seized the opportunity.
“Mr. Guildford,” she said hastily, in a voice too low to catch the long ears of the little pitcher in the corner, “I think I had better tell you that my cousin Trevor Fawcett’s wife is Geneviève Casalis—Geneviève Fawcett now, of course. It is with her parents I am now staying here; they are very kind and good. Eudoxie,” with a glance towards the child, “is Geneviève’s sister. I thought it best you should know, as I dare say you will see Monsieur and Madame Casalis sometimes.”
Mr. Guildford did not speak. One rapid glance of inquiry he could not repress. Cicely stood it with perfect calmness.