Sir Charles Grandison.
HE was tall and fair and very good-looking. He had pleasant somewhat sleepy blue eyes, and a pleasant somewhat sleepy manner. Take him as a whole he was a favourable specimen of the upper class young Englishman of a certain type, prosperous, amiable, well-principled according to his lights, very fairly satisfied with things as he found them, little disposed by nature or education to dive below the surface.
In the little bustle of Mr. Guildford’s leave-taking, the figure of the girl sitting quietly by the table had almost escaped Mr. Fawcett’s notice. But Geneviève had risen to say good-bye to the doctor, and before she sat down again Mrs. Methvyn addressed her.
“Geneviève, my dear, don’t stay over there all alone. By the bye I must introduce a new cousin to you. Not exactly a cousin certainly, but as you both call me aunt, it seems something like it. This is Mr. Fawcett, Geneviève, and this, Trevor, is my little niece—niece ‘à la mode de Bretagne,’ as your mother says, Geneviève—Geneviève Casalis who has come to us all the way from Hivèritz. You must have been near there not long ago, Trevor. I think your mother,” but she stopped short in her sentence, startled by a sudden expression of surprise from the young man.
“By Jove,” he exclaimed, but recovering himself almost immediately, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” he went on, “I was so astonished at seeing Miss Casalis again. I had no idea—”
Geneviève had come forward when her aunt first spoke to her, and when Mrs. Methvyn had gone on to introduce the so-called cousins, Mr. Fawcett had naturally turned towards the young lady, obtaining thus for the first time a full view of her face, her lovely blushing face, with timid up-looking eyes; the face that not many weeks ago had rested white and unconscious on his shoulder, which he had often vaguely wondered if he should ever see again. This very evening, as he had stood waiting by the gate, something had recalled to his mind the accident at Hivèritz, and he had thought to himself that he would tell Cicely about it and try to describe to her the girl’s beautiful face.
“If she could see her, she would want to paint her I am sure,” he thought. “She would make such a stunning gipsy, or Italian peasant girl, or something like that. I wish Cicely could see her. She is so ready to admire pretty girls. I never knew any woman like her for that. Even my mother and Miss Winter began criticising that lovely girl. My mother said she had no manners—poor little soul! she was frightened out of her wits—and Miss Winter found fault with her dress.”
And within ten minutes of his standing at the gate, and thinking over the adventure of Hivèritz, behold the heroine of it standing before him in the flesh! It was enough to excuse a pretty forcible expression of astonishment.
Mrs. Methvyn looked bewildered in the extreme.
“Do you mean that you and Geneviève have met before?” she inquired. “You never told us so, Geneviève?”