Mr. Guildford judged it wiser, for this time at least, to give in. So Colonel Methvyn, to make the matter all the surer, repeated the order for the carriage, and, having thus satisfied his notions of hospitality, was wheeled away.
Mrs. Methvyn asked Geneviève to play. The girl did so without hesitation, and it seemed to Mr. Guildford that she played well, better than her cousin.
“Do you not sing too?” he inquired, when she stopped. He was standing by the piano, attracted by the music and amused by the pretty way in which her slender fingers ran lightly up and down the keys.
“A little, not much—not well,” she answered. “But to-night, please not. At home we sing all together; maman, the brothers, all.” And again she sighed gently and the lustrous eyes grew dewy.
“You must forgive me. I should not have asked you,” he said kindly, and then he turned away, and Geneviève went on playing.
The blinds were not yet drawn down; glancing round, Mr. Guildford saw Miss Methvyn standing by the window nearest to the piano, looking out into the garden. It was bright moonlight.
“What a lovely evening it is!” said Cicely. “Mr. Guildford, I don’t wonder at your wanting to walk to Greybridge.”
“I really should have enjoyed it,” he answered, “but—”
“But what?” asked Miss Methvyn, looking up inquiringly.
“I fancied my persistence might have annoyed Colonel Methvyn, that was all,” he said lightly.