“And because you think I cry now, you follow me and—and—” Geneviève’s inconsequent accusation was lost in a fresh flood of tears.
Mr. Fawcett was considerably embarrassed. It was very evident to him, even though he was not gifted with peculiarly acute perception, that the girl was offended with him. It was annoying, but somehow he could not feel annoyed. He could only feel sorry and concerned and vexed with himself for his own clumsiness.
“I beg you to forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I did not know—how could I—that you were really in distress. I would not have followed you if I had known it would vex you. At least—”
The gentleness and deference of his tone disarmed Geneviève’s very passing indignation.
“There is nothing wrong,” she said, anxious to take him into her confidence to the extent she felt necessary. “I wanted to tell you when I saw you in the street; it was only that I had a letter to post, and I thought I would walk with it to Greybridge. And now I fear my aunt and my cousin might be angry if they knew. It was foolish of me.”
“Then did they not know of your going so far alone?” inquired Trevor, rather mystified.
“Oh! no, they are gone to the other town—to Haverstock, in the little carriage, the pony-carriage that my cousin conducts herself. There is not place for three,” and half unconsciously Geneviève’s voice took a plaintive inflection.
“I don’t think it is very—” began Mr. Fawcett more vehemently than usual, but he stopped suddenly. “And so you came all the way to Greybridge to pass the time, I suppose? There are far prettier walks than along the high-road.”
“It was not that only,” said Geneviève, her tone growing lower, the scarlet rushing back to her cheeks, “It was that I wished to post my letter myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the young man, somewhat unreasonably disgusted at having, as he fancied, lighted upon some silly love affair. “I fancied French girls were so well looked after,” he thought to himself.