Mrs. Methvyn was not alone when she joined them. Geneviève had seen her leave the house and ran after her, so the two came across the lawn together.
“I have finished my letters at last, I am glad to say,” said Cicely’s mother, after she had shaken hands with Mr. Guildford, “so now I have nothing to do till dinner-time, and we can all stay out till the last moment—till Mr. Guildford orders you in, I mean, Philip. What a delicious afternoon it is!”
“Yes, here it is perfect,” said Cicely; “the sun was just a little too hot driving to Haverstock, though the road is pretty shady. Did you not find it disagreeable coming from Greybridge, Mr. Guildford—that road is so unsheltered?”
“It was rather hot, but it is not a long drive,” he replied. “You must have found it rather a tiring walk, did you not, Miss Casalis?” he added, thoughtlessly, turning to Geneviève.
The girl looked at him with a curious half-terrified, half-appealing expression. Her lips parted as if she were going to speak, but before she had time to say anything, Mrs. Methvyn and Cicely interrupted her.
“Geneviève has not been at Greybridge, Mr. Guildford,” they exclaimed; “you must have been mistaken.”
“I did not mean to say I saw Miss Casalis at Greybridge,” he replied quietly. “It was on my way here I thought I saw you in the distance,” he went on, turning to Geneviève.
“Oh! that may be,” said Mrs. Methvyn. “You did go for a little walk you told me, I think, my dear, but of course you would not dream of going so far as Greybridge alone—that would never do.”
“I did not see Mr. Guildford when I was out,” said Geneviève. “Was it at the distance you thought you saw me?”
The words sounded simple in the extreme, and her tone of voice was quiet and collected, but as the young man turned to reply, he saw in her eyes the same expression of mute appeal. A slight chill seemed to run through him; so young, yet so disingenuous! Yet surely, surely, more to be pitied than blamed; and with this reflection there set in a strong feeling of contemptuous indignation against Mr. Fawcett, the man who could in the least take advantage of a young girl’s ignorance and inexperience. Not that Mr. Guildford was a man of the world in the sense of being ready to give the worst explanation to even the faintest appearances of evil, or of crediting his fellow-beings in advance with wrong-doing; he would not have given a second thought to what he had seen but for Geneviève’s unmistakable terror of its being known to her aunt. That she had really been at Greybridge, unknown to her friends, and that this, and not the meeting with Mr. Fawcett, was the terrible secret, naturally, never occurred to him. Had he known it, he would have been saved some present regret and future embarrassment. He looked at Geneviève gravely, as he answered her question.