"Aren't you happy here, Annette, that you wish to move?" said Aunt Maria dryly.
It slid through Annette's mind that she understood why Aunt Maria complained that few of her friends had remained loyal to her. She looked straight in front of her. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke again.
"I have been happy here, but I should not like Red Riff as a permanency."
"Oh! my dear love," said Aunt Harriet, suddenly lurching from her chair and kneeling down beside Annette, while the little air-cushion ran with unusual vigour into the middle of the room, and then subsided with equal suddenness on the floor. "I feared this. I have seen it coming. Men are like that, even the clergy—I may say more especially the clergy. They know not what they do, or what a fragile thing a young girl's heart is. But are you not giving way to despair too early in the day? Don't you agree with me, Maria? This may be only the night of sorrow. Joy may come in the morning."
Annette could not help smiling. She raised her aunt, retrieved the air-cushion, replaced her upon it, and said—
"You are making a mistake. I am not—interested in Mr. Black."
"I never thought for a moment you were," said Aunt Maria bluntly. "Mr. Black is all very well—a most estimable person, I have no doubt. But I don't see why you are in such a hurry to leave Riff."
"You both want to go, and so do I. As we all three wish to go, why stay?"
"Personally, I am in no hurry to go till I have finished The Silver Cross," said Aunt Maria.
"No one misses the stimulus of cultivated society more than I do, but I always feel London life, with its large demands upon one, somewhat of a strain when I am composing. And the seclusion of the country is certainly conducive to work."