“I can’t tell you—just that something was troubling you.”
“We have had a great many troubles,” said Cicely evasively.
“Yes, but the look I mean doesn’t come from those. It is an uncertain, wistful look, as if you were trying to be satisfied about something and couldn’t. I don’t want you to tell me, dear, if you don’t like, but if—if I could help you or be any good to you, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Cicely kissed her. “Yes, I would,” she said. “But don’t trouble about me, Amy. You have made yourself look quite anxious, and I was just thinking how bright and pretty you were to-night,” she added regretfully.
“I shall look ‘bright and pretty’ again in a minute,” said Lady Forrester insinuatingly, “if—if—Cicely don’t be angry with me—if you’ll satisfy me about one thing.”
“Tell me what it is then.”
“Whatever is it that is troubling you has nothing to do with Trevor Fawcett, has it?” asked Amiel boldly. “It is not that you are looking back to all that, is it?”
Cicely’s face cleared. “No,” she said unhesitatingly, “it has nothing to do with that.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Amiel. “You know I never thought him good enough for you, Cicely. That wife of his is welcome to him as far as you are concerned, in my opinion, though I must say—”
“Please don’t say it, Amy,” interrupted Cicely. “I don’t like even you to say bitter things about them. Why should you? You see how completely I have outgrown it. I can’t bear you to be unforgiving to Trevor, poor Trevor. I wish he had been our brother, Amy!”