“Perhaps she did not know Trevor’s name,” suggested Cicely, fancying that Geneviève looked shy and embarrassed.
“I knew it was Fawcett,” said Geneviève, “but I knew not but that here in England there are many Fawcetts.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Fawcett eagerly. “Of course. I only wonder you remember the name at all.” He could not have explained why, but he certainly was rather pleased than the reverse to find that Mademoiselle Casalis had not talked about their former meeting.
“When was it you met Mr. Fawcett before? On your way through France?” inquired Mrs. Methvyn of Geneviève.
“Oh! no, dear aunt. It was while I was still at the home. Before I knew that I should come to England at all,” the girl replied simply enough. And then she told about the accident, how kind “Miladi Fawcett” had been, how thankful “maman” had felt that it had done her no harm—all in her pretty, broken English, stopping here and there for a word, or glancing up appealingly with a “how do you say so and so?”—all just as it had happened; Mr. Fawcett now and then joining in with some observation; reserving only to herself her mother’s recollection of the English family’s name and speculation as to whether the Fawcetts of her youth and those of Geneviève’s adventure could be the same. For the mention of this would assuredly have led to a repetition of the question, “Why did you not tell us about it before?” a question that Geneviève was not prepared to answer, for the simple reason that she could not really exactly say why she had not done so. It would have been only natural, girlishly natural, to have inquired of her aunt or cousin if among their neighbours were any family corresponding to her description, but though natural to most girls, to Geneviève anything so frank and straightforward was the reverse. To her the question, “Why should I not tell?” less frequently presented itself than the reverse, “Why should I?”
Perhaps the only definite reason she could have given for her reserve, was one she might certainly be excused for keeping to herself—a foolish, vague, half-romantic, half calculating anticipation of the effect and possible result of her sudden appearance before old Mathurine’s ‘jeune milord,’ the hero of the girl’s latest day-dream.
So she told her little adventure simply and prettily, with here and there a timid blush, and a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she recalled her mother’s thankfulness, the anxiety and terror of ‘cette bonne Mathurine.’
“It is quite a curious coincidence,” said Mrs. Methvyn with interest. “I must take you to see Lady Frederica some day soon Geneviève. She will be pleased to meet you again. In any case she would be glad to see you, for she remembers your mother. In one of her letters to me she said so, and was sorry I had not given her Madame Casalis’s address in case of your passing through Hivèritz, Trevor. It was too late then, for you had already been there.”
“Yes, what a pity,” exclaimed Mr. Fawcett. “I remember my mother saying something about it when we were in Switzerland. She could not remember where Madame Casalis lived. We little thought we had already made her daughter’s acquaintance.”
“Did you not hear Geneviève’s name?” inquired Cicely.