“The Fawcetts!” repeated Geneviève impulsively.
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Methvyn, “the Fawcetts—our nearest neighbours Colonel Methvyn’s cousins. Mr. Fawcett has been in the habit of coming here at all hours since he was a boy, and there is a short cut through the fields that saves a couple of miles,” she went on, in a sort of generally explanatory way; “it comes out at the little gate in the laurel-walk. By the bye, I wonder if Cicely has the key. We generally keep it locked, for a good many tramps come round by the Ash Lane, and Trev—Mr. Fawcett, always whistles, on the chance of our hearing him, before coming round the other way by the lodge.”
“Cicely had a key to-day,” said Geneviève. “We went through the little gate when we were out, and my cousin unlocked it.”
“Ah! that is all right, then; she often carries it in her pocket,” replied Mrs. Methvyn.
She went to the glass door, and opening it, stood listening as if for approaching voices. Geneviève sat down by the table and began idly turning over some photographs. Mr. Guildford stood at a little distance, wishing the carriage would come round that he might go. From time to time, however, he could not help glancing at the face bent over the photograph book. In profile it was hardly so perfect as when in full view; still it was very lovely—every feature so clear, and yet rounded, the long black eyelashes sweeping the delicately tinted cheek, the expression so innocently wistful.
“I doubt if that little southern flower will take kindly to this soil,” thought Mr. Guildford.
Just then Geneviève happened to look up, and catching sight of the young man’s eyes fixed upon her, blushed vividly. Pitying her discomfort, and annoyed with himself for being the cause of it, he hastily made some remark about the pictures she was looking at, thinking to himself as he did so of the shallowness of the popular notion that French girls were more artificial, less unsophisticated and retiring, than English maidens. Geneviève was on the point of replying to his observation, when the door opened.
“The carriage for Mr. Guildford,” said the footman.
Mr. Guildford turned to Mrs. Methvyn, and was beginning to say good-bye, when voices were heard outside—cheerful voices they sounded as they came nearer—Miss Methvyn’s and another, a deeper, fuller toned voice, and in a moment their owners appeared at the glass door.
“Mother,” said Cicely, and to Mr. Guildford her tone sounded bright and eager, “mother, here is Trevor, are you not astonished? Did you think me insane when I ran off in such a hurry?” she went on laughingly.