“I don’t know,” she replied doubtfully. “I am sure he is a good man, and there is something in his manner that interests one, though I suspect I should disagree with him on almost every subject.”
Mr. Fawcett began to laugh.
“That speech is so like you, Cis,” he said.
“How?” said Cicely; but she laughed too.
“Oh! I can’t tell you,” he replied; “it was just like you, I can’t explain why. I saw that you were interested. I never saw you so attentive before. I shall be getting jeal—”
“Trevor,” exclaimed Cicely remonstratingly. The half word had caught Geneviève’s quick ears. She looked up with a sudden change of expression, and something in her face struck Cicely curiously; but in a moment the look had died out again, for Geneviève imagined that she saw before her the reason of Cicely’s exclamation. A few steps in front of them, in the lane they had just entered, a sudden turn showed the figure of the young clergyman. He was walking very fast, but Mr. Fawcett ran forward and overtook him.
“I looked for you after church,” he was saying to Mr. Hayle when the cousins came up, “but you had disappeared. My mother is expecting you at luncheon, you know.”
“At dinner, thank you,” replied Mr. Hayle, “I shall be very happy to dine with you, but I never take luncheon.”
“Where are you off to, then, in such a hurry?” asked Mr. Fawcett; “but I am forgetting,” he went on, “that you have not met Miss Methvyn before; Cicely, may I introduce Mr. Hayle to you?”
The clergyman bowed, growing rather red as he did so. On nearer view he looked even more boyish than at a little distance, and it was not difficult to see that he was unaccustomed to society.