After dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room, Anne made their cousin’s proposal known to them: that they should continue to live at Mount, paying him rent according to Mr. Loseby’s suggestion. She did not herself wish to accept this proposal--but a kind of opposition was roused in her by the blank manner in which it was listened to. She had been struggling against a guilty sense of her own private inclination to go to London, to be in the same place with her lover--but she did not see why _they_ should wish the same thing. There seemed to Anne to be a certain impertinence in any inclination of theirs which should turn the same way. What inducement had they to care for London, or any change of residence? Though they were virtually backing her up, yet she was angry with them for it. ‘I thought you would be sure to wish to stay,’ she said. ‘You see, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with some hesitation, ‘it is not now as it was before; when we were all happy together, home was home. But now, after all we have gone through--and things would not be the same as before--your sister wants a change--and so do you----’ ‘Do not think of me,’ said Anne, hastily. ‘But it is my duty to think of you, too. Rose has always been delicate, and the winters at Mount are trying, and this year, of course, you would have no variety, no society. I am sure it is very kind of Heathcote: but if we could get a comfortable little house in town--a change,’ said Mrs. Mountford, growing bolder, ‘would do us all good.’ ‘Oh, don’t let us stay at Mount!’ cried Rose. ‘In the wet, cold winter days it is terrible. I have never liked Mount in winter. Do let us get away now that we can get away. I have never seen anything. Let us go to town till the spring, and then let us go abroad.’ ‘That is what I should like,’ said Mrs. Mountford, meekly. ‘Change of air and scene is always recommended. You are very strong, Anne, you don’t feel it so much--you could go on for ever; but people that are more delicately organised, people who _feel_ things more, can’t just settle down after trouble like ours. We ought to move about a little and have thorough change of scene.’ Anne was amazed at herself for the annoyance, the resentment, the resistance to which she felt herself moved. It was simple perversity, she felt, for in her heart she wanted to move, perhaps more than they did--and she had a reason for her wish--but they had none. It was mere wanton desire for change on their part. She was angry, though she saw how foolish it was to be angry. ‘It was extremely kind of Heathcote to make such a proposal,’ she said.