"Oh, Maria! See what we miss by living in the country."
Aunt Maria adjusted her pince-nez and inspected the card.
"Mission to the women of the Zambesi! H'm! H'm!"
"The Bishop will speak himself," almost wailed Aunt Harriet. "Don't you see it, Maria? 'Will address the meeting.' Our own dear Bishop!"
"If you are alluding to the Bishop of Booleywoggah, you never went to the previous meetings of the Society when we were in London."
"Could I help that?" said Aunt Harriet, much wounded. "Really, you sometimes speak, Maria, as if I had not a weak spine, and could move about as I liked. No one was more active than I was before I was struck down, and I suppost it is only natural that I should miss the va et vient, the movement, the clash of wits of London. I never have complained,—I never do complain,—but I'm completely buried here, and that's the truth."
"We came here on Catherine's account," said Aunt Maria. "No one regretted the move more than I did. Except Mr. Stirling, there is no one I really care to associate with down here." "Why remain, then," said Annette, "if none of us like it?"
Both the aunts stared at her aghast.
"Leave Red Riff!" said Aunt Maria, as if it had been suggested that she should leave this planet altogether.
"Why, Annette," said Aunt Harriet, with dignity, "of course we should not think of doing such a selfish thing, now we have you to think of—at least, I speak for myself. You love the country. It suits you. You are not intellectual, not like us passionately absorbed in the problems of the day. You have your little milieu, and your little innocent local interests—the choir, the Sunday school, your friends the Miss Blinketts, the Manvers, the Blacks. It would be too cruel to uproot you now, and I for one should never consent to it."