They had come to a point where the roads to Lingthurst and Greystone separated. Just then there came the sound of rapidly approaching wheels behind.
“I think I must leave you now,” said Mr. Fawcett. “You can’t miss your way. I must hurry home, I fear.”
He shook hands with even more than his ordinary gentle empressement. “The English way of shaking hands,” as Geneviève called it, and which she so admired. Nevertheless, a slight uneasiness was visible in his manner which puzzled her a little.
He mounted and rode off quickly, managing, however, to obtain a glimpse of the dog cart, now at no great distance. He recognized the driver as one of the Abbey grooms, but could not identify the person beside him.
“Whoever it is, he can hardly have seen me,” he thought, as he galloped off, and the reflection reassured him, for he still dreaded any gossip about Geneviève’s escapade. “I hope she will be more careful in future,” he said to himself. “I wish I could give Cicely a hint to be more tender with her. I am glad she has confided her little troubles to me, for in my position of course I am like a sort of brother to her. There would be no risk of gossip in her walking about as much as she likes if she would keep to the Abbey grounds. I must try to make her understand. I wonder, by the bye, if she quite knows how things are between Cicely and me. Surely she does—”.
But a slight cloud overspread his bright face.
[CHAPTER IX.]
OF THE SAME OPINION STILL.
“Then I said, ‘I covet truth,
Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat—
I leave it behind with the games of youth.’”
R. W. Emerson.