There was a likeness of feature and complexion between these two—a material resemblance, which seemed, in a sense, to render more visible the underlying dissimilarity. Both pairs of blue eyes were calm and gentle; but those of the young man told of repose from the absence of conflicting elements; those of the girl, of the quiet of restrained power. There was decision in both faces; in Trevor’s it was that of a straightforward, healthy, uncultivated, not acutely sensitive nature; in Cicely’s it was the firmness of an organisation strong to resist where the necessity of resistance should be the result of conviction, but at the same time exquisitely keen to suffer. A glance at the man told you pretty correctly the extent of his mental capacity. He was no fool, but there was small promise of further intellectual development; such as he was, he was likely to remain; but it took more than many glances to estimate justly the reserve of power and depths of feeling hidden below the stillness of Cicely Methvyn’s young face.
Something in the girl’s manner told Mr. Fawcett that the occasion would not be an auspicious one for entering upon a subject he had come half prepared to discuss. So he said nothing for a minute or two, and Cicely went on with her accounts. As Mr. Fawcett watched her, a slight expression of dissatisfaction crept over his face.
“Cicely,” he said.
“Well,” said Cicely, without looking up this time.
“You’re not going to wear that deep mourning much longer, are you?”
Cicely’s face lost its brightness. There was a slight constraint in her tone as she answered.
“It is not very deep mourning,” she said, glancing at her gown. “There is no crape on my dress. I dislike very deep, elaborate mourning.”
“If it was handsomer of its kind, perhaps it would be more becoming,” said Mr. Fawcett agreeably. “As it is, Cicely, I can’t say I think it so. You are too colourless for that sort of dull-looking dress. It might suit some people—your cousin, for instance; I dare say if we saw her in a plain black dress like yours, we should think she couldn’t wear anything that would suit her as well. She is so brilliant,” he added reflectively.
“Yes,” said Cicely. “I dare say we should. But then, Trevor, I strongly suspect we should think so whatever Geneviève wore. She is so very lovely. But as for me, Trevor, you know I wasn’t thinking of whether it would suit me or not when I got this dress.”
Her coloured deepened a little as she spoke, and the words sounded almost reproachful.