"Chilly!" echoed Mrs. Taunton. "Oh! you don't know what cold weather is in London. Wait till you see a fog, a nice, thick, yellow fog, with the sun like a ball of red fire glaring thro' it, then you'll say its chilly."
"Ugh," said the Australian, with a shudder, "your description is suggestive of the charnel-house."
"Monteith longs for the blue skies of Australia," said Foster, with a laugh, as he received his cup of tea from his hostess.
"So would you," retorted Ronald, "if you had once been there. Life in Australia is like the prairie fever, one is always longing to be back again."
"Perhaps that's the reason my brother stops out there so persistently?" said Mrs. Taunton, leaning back in her chair.
The two gentlemen suddenly became grave, whereat the lady sat up again.
"What do you mean by all this mystery," she asked impetuously; "last night Mr. Monteith roused my curiosity to the highest pitch about my brother, and then refused to gratify it. Is anything wrong? Has Leopold run away with another man's wife, or found a gold mine, or committed a murder, or what?"
She tried to speak lightly, but there was a ring of anxiety in her tones.
"You promised to show me his portrait," said Monteith, suddenly looking up.
Mrs. Taunton arose without a word, and going to a distant table, took up a photograph framed in purple plush, which she placed in Monteith's hands.