She sat now in her drawing-room waiting for Mr. Monteith and his friend, and wondering what could be the reason of their visit. The soft light of the day somewhat subdued by the long curtains which draped the windows, stole into the room and all the picturesque objects were seen in a kind of semi-twilight. Here, a tall column with the bust of a laughing Menade in marble, looking white and still against a background of crimson plush, and there, a landscape picture on an easel with some silken drapery flung carelessly over it. Plenty of easy chairs, spindle-legged tables of Chippendale, cupboards of priceless china, great jars from the Flowery Land which could have hidden the Forty Thieves, and innumerable mirrors all over the walls interspersed with pictures both in oil and watercolours. Mrs. Taunton herself, in a tea-gown of some soft, clinging material, was flitting about here and there like a restless butterfly--now arranging some flowers with deft hands, and again touching the dainty tea-service of Sèvres china which stood at the end of the room. "I do wish those men would be punctual," said Mrs. Taunton, for the tenth time, as she stood at one of the long windows and looked down the dismal street; "I feel so miserable being alone." Her husband was up in his studio painting, so she sat down on the window seat, and leaning her head on her hand began to soliloquize. "I wonder what that Mr. Monteith wants to tell me," she said to herself; "he must have some news of Leopold; I'm sure I hope so; it is years since I heard from him; and then he left such a lot of things with me; all those jewels which belonged to mother. I hope there's nothing wrong, but I dare say it's all right; Leopold could always look after himself. Ah!" as the rattle of wheels was heard, "there they are," and she left the window quickly, as a hansom drove up to the door. In a few moments Mr. Monteith and Mr. Foster were announced, and Mrs. Taunton received them with a face wreathed in smiles far different from the melancholy countenance which had gazed out of the window a few moments since. A wonderfully pretty woman she looked in her pale, yellow tea-gown as she advanced to greet the young men with the polished charm of a thorough woman of the world. "It's rather chilly to-day," observed Monteith, when they were all comfortably seated, and Mrs. Taunton was busy at the tea-table. "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."