“Yes, Miss Casalis, when I thought I saw you it was at some distance.”
Something in his tone inclined Cicely to start up in her cousin’s defence—defence from what, she knew not, but she fancied there was a coldness and constraint in his manner to Geneviève, which annoyed her. “Poor little Geneviève is looking quite frightened again,” she thought to herself. “Mr. Guildford may be very clever and estimable—I have no doubt he is, but he would be much pleasanter if he were less abrupt.”
But aloud she only said, “If it was at a distance you thought you saw her, I dare say it was not Geneviève at all. One requires to know a person very well indeed—their appearance, I mean—to recognise them at a distance.”
“Perhaps so,” said Mr. Guildford.
Then he turned to Colonel Methvyn, and began talking of some different subject, but somehow the brightness and harmony of the pleasant afternoon seemed to have fled.
But Cicely had no idea of allowing such desirable guests to take their departure without making an effort to detain them.
“Papa,” she said, suddenly, “do you know what this day week will be?”.
“This day week, my dear?” repeated her father, “this day week?—no, I don’t remember. Oh! yes, to be sure, it will be—”
“My birthday,” she interrupted. “What shall we do to celebrate it? Geneviève, help us to an idea.”
“Let us have a picnic,” exclaimed Geneviève, clapping her hands, her eyes dancing with excitement and glee in a manner that altogether nonplussed Mr. Guildford’s new opinion of her. He looked at her in amazement.