"And pray mam," enquired the Major as they strolled over velvety lawn, "are you and my lady Betty settled in the country for good?"
The Lady Belinda stopped suddenly and raised clasped hands to heaven.
"Hark to the monster!" she ejaculated, "O Lud, Major, how can you? Stop in the country—I? O heaven—a wilderness of cabbages and caterpillars—of champing cows and snorting bulls! Sir, sir, at the bare possibility I vow I could positively swoon away——"
"Don't, mam!" cried the Major hastily. "No, no mam, pray don't," he pleaded.
"I detest the country sir, I——"
"Quite so, quite so," said the Major soothingly, "cows mam, I understand—quite natural indeed!"
"I loathe and abominate the country, sir—so rude and savage! Such mud and so—so infinite muddy and clingy! What can one do in the country but mope and sigh to be out of it?"
"Well, one can walk in it, mam, and——"
"Walk, sir? But I nauseate walking—in the country extremely. Think of the brooks sir, so—so barbarously wet and—and brooky. Think of the wind so bold to rumple one and spiky things to drag at and tear and take liberties with one's garments! Think of the things that creep and crawl and the things that fly and buzz—and the spiders' webs that tickle one's face! No sir, no—the country is no place for one endowed with a fine and delicate nature."
"Certainly not, mam," said the Major heartily. "Then you'll be leaving shortly?"