“A squirrel—écureuil, isn’t it, in French? Those dear little creatures with great bushy tails,” said Cicely.
“Oh!” said Geneviève, enlightened, but not interested. But Cicely was in a talkative mood, and was not to be easily discouraged.
“Did you never play at fancying what animal you would like to be when you were a little girl?” she asked. “I thought all children did.”
“I don’t think we ever did,” said Geneviève. “I don’t remember. I was not very happy when I was a little girl. I was not like you, Cicely, the only child; there were so many children, and mamma always busy. Ah! no,” with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “I am glad to be no longer a child.”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Cicely involuntarily. “I mean,” she went on, softening her tone, “I am so sorry for any one that has not a happy remembrance of childhood. I should have fancied you had had such a happy childhood, Geneviève. Of course I was very happy, and, I suspect, a good deal indulged, but I often wished for companions near me in age. My sister Amiel, you know, is seven years older than I, and Trevor Fawcett, my other companion, is five years older than I am. And you had brothers and sisters not much younger than yourself.”
“Brothers,” corrected Geneviève. “Eudoxie is eight years younger. But my brothers amused themselves always without me; they were several. One brother would be different; one brother might have been to me such as Mr. Fawcett was to you.”
Her tone was more animated now. But Cicely did not seem to care to pursue the subject further.
“Yes,” she said, “perhaps your having several brothers made it different,” and then they walked on in silence for a few minutes.
It was very quiet in the woods: such sounds as there were, came clear and crisp; it was too early in the season yet for the rich, all-pervading hum of full summer life; it seemed the morning of the year as well as of the day.
“Could you tell it was Sunday without knowing, Geneviève?” said Cicely suddenly.