“How much brighter Geneviève looks now,” she thought. “I wonder if it is really true that French people are so changeable. Those commonplace sayings must have had truth in them originally, though one’s inclination is to doubt them. But, certainly, Geneviève is not like an English girl; she is simpler and less sophisticated; and yet—”
Geneviève met her with an apology—an apology disproportionate to the occasion, it seemed to Cicely. She said so.
“Why, Geneviève, you talk as if I were an ogress,” she exclaimed. “Why should I be so vexed with you for walking on a little way? I should rather, if we are to be on such terms, apologize to you for staying behind to talk to old Mrs. Perkins.”.
A little hurt feeling was perceptible in her tone. Geneviève’s face assumed an expression of great distress, and her eyes grew dewy. She fell a few steps behind without speaking. Mr. Fawcett walked on beside Cicely. He looked annoyed.
“Are you put out about anything this morning, Cicely? You don’t seem like yourself,” he remarked.
Miss Methvyn looked up quickly. “You mean that I spoke crossly to Geneviève,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. But it is a little disappointing, Trevor; I can’t get her to understand me. She seems to forget that I am a girl like herself, and she seems in awe of me in a way that hurts me. I wish she were more frank.”
“More frank,” repeated Trevor; “upon my word, Cicely, you are difficult to please. If you had wished the poor little soul were a little more dignified, a degree more self-confident, I could understand you. It is no wonder she is in awe of you, as you say. You must throw off some of your reserve if you want to win her confidence.”
“I did not know you thought me reserved, Trevor,” said Cicely sadly. And then, before he had time to answer, she turned back to Geneviève. “Are you tired, dear?” she said kindly. “I am very thoughtless in forgetting you are not accustomed to such long walks as I.”
“I am not tired, thank you. That is to say, only the least in the world,” said Geneviève, in a sweet but subdued tone. But Cicely was not discouraged; she talked on persistently, drawing her cousin into the conversation, till at last Geneviève unconsciously forgot her role of pretty suffering saint, and Trevor his very rare fit of annoyance, and they were all three the best of friends again.
“And how do you like Mr. Hayle, Cicely?” asked Mr. Fawcett when there fell a little pause in the conversation.