“Geneviève,” said her aunt, as they were all passing through the hall, on their way to the dining-room, “Is your address at Hivèritz, 21, or 31, Rue de la Croix? I always forget. I have just been writing to your mother.”
“31, Rue de la Croix blanche, dear aunt,” said Geneviève, wondering in her own mind if Mr. Fawcett would perhaps go a walk with Cicely and her in the afternoon, and wishing that she had changed her dress before luncheon.
[CHAPTER VII.]
SOME ARE WISE, SOME OTHERWISE.
“. . . à quoi bon avoir une jolie figure et une délicieuse toilette, si on ne les montre pas?”
Les Misérables.
THE next day was Sunday. A Sunday beautiful enough to make Cicely’s wish that she could spend it altogether in the woods seem excusable. It was better than “a perfect day;” it was a day brimming over with promise of better things yet to come, a day to infuse one with vague, delicious hopefulness, to set one in tune with oneself, and, as a natural consequence of such a happy state of things, with everybody else as well.
Mrs. Methvyn could not go to church in the morning, for her husband had had a restless night, and as was often the case, objected to her leaving him, so the two girls set off alone. It was Geneviève’s first Sunday in England. She seemed quiet and preoccupied, but Cicely was bright and animated.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Geneviève?” said Cicely, stopping for a moment and gazing up through the thick network of leaves to the brilliant blue beyond. “Don’t you like to see that green light among the trees? It looks so fresh and cool up there, I think I should like to be a squirrel.”
“A what?” said Geneviève, looking puzzled.