Her extreme dolefulness roused the others to genuine laughter.
“My dearest child,” said her mother, “you don’t suppose London is always like this? Why, I don’t remember a single fog when I was a girl, and though I did not live in London, I often paid visits here, now and then in the winter.”
“Oh, but, mamma, you can’t remember anything in England but delightfulness,” said Stasy incredulously. “Why, I know one day you told us it seemed to have been summer even when you were skating. And I daresay fogs have got worse since then. Very likely we shall be told that they are beginning to spread all over the country. I know I read or heard somewhere that they were getting worse.”
“Only in London,” said Blanche, “and that is because it is growing and growing so. That does not affect the rest of England. The fogs are the revers de la médaille of these lovely, hot coal-fires, I suppose.”
She stooped and took up the tongs to lift a red-hot glowing morsel that had fallen into the grate, taking advantage of the position to whisper into her sister’s ears a word of remembrance.
“Do try to be a little brighter, Stasy, for mamma’s sake.”
The entrance of tea at that moment did more perhaps in the desired direction than Blanche’s hint. Stasy got up from her low chair and looked about her.
“How long has there been fog like this?” she asked the waiter, as he reappeared with a beautifully toasted tea-cake.
“Yesterday, miss. No, the day before, I think,” he replied, as if fog or no fog were not a matter of special importance.
“And how long do they last generally?” Stasy continued.