“That was very good of you,” she said cordially, but some indefinite feeling prompted him to resent her appreciation of his thoughtfulness.
“You forget,” he said coldly, “that thinking of such things is a part of my business.”
Cicely’s face grew graver. When she spoke again, however, there was no change in her tone.
“It looks so tempting out there,” she said, “I cannot stay in doors any longer. Mr. Guildford, will you help me to open this?”
The knob of the glass door was stiff, but it soon yielded. Mrs. Methvyn heard the sound, and looked up.
“What are you doing, Cicely?” she said. “Not going out, surely!”
“Only for a few minutes, mother,” pleaded the girl. “It is so mild, and Geneviève’s music will sound so pretty outside. I have got a shawl. Don’t leave off playing, Geneviève, please.”
Mrs. Methvyn made no further objection, and Cicely stepped out. There was some little difficulty in closing the door again from the outside, Mr. Guildford followed to help her—they stood together on the smooth gravel walk. Before them lay the flower beds, a few hours ago gay with the brightest colours; now, sleeping crocuses and
“tulips made grey by the moonlight”
were hardly to be distinguished from each other, or from the silvery grass of the borders.