“Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can?” her brother retorted snappishly. “There’s nothing so aggravating as to have someone standing over one the whole time asking: ‘Will it be all right soon?’ and ‘When do you think you’ll have it in order?’ or ‘D’you know what’s wrong with it?’ I’m doing the best I can with the thing.”
Sylvia was evidently used to her brother’s outbreaks of temper. With a slight gesture she reassured Arthur that he would not be interrupted again; and then she turned to getting the bridge-table arranged. She and Wendover were to play Sir Clinton and Vera Forrest.
“I don’t care much for this room at this time of the evening,” she said, as she took the cards from their box. “The window’s almost level with the ground, and that bank of rhododendrons is so close that it blocks the best part of the view.”
“Not much view left at this time of night, Miss Hawkhurst,” Wendover said, glancing out. “The dusk’s so deep that one can hardly see anything in it now.”
Ernest who had been shuffling about the room in an aimless fashion for a few moments suddenly uttered a complaint.
“It’s very stuffy in here. Don’t you find it so, Sir Clinton? And you, Miss Forrest? It’s a rather hot night. Very close. I do like fresh air; they sometimes laugh at me and call me a fresh air fiend, you know; but I do like a breath of fresh air. Anybody object to the window being opened a bit from the bottom? Let some cooler air in here, then.”
Sylvia looked up from her game.
“We’re right in front of the window, uncle. Perhaps some of us might object to possible draughts.”
But Ernest refused to allow his desires to be side-tracked in this way.
“You don’t object, Miss Forrest? No? And you people don’t, either? You see, Sylvia, nobody minds. I’ll just open it a bit.”