But, upon her assuming a tone of authority, he opened the door, grumbling all the while.
The room was in frightful confusion—a couple of portmanteaux lay open on the floor; books, papers, clothes, were scattered in every direction. There was nothing packed. Brian was in shirt-sleeves and slippers, and had been smoking furiously, for the room was full of tobacco.
'Why don't you open your windows, Brian?' said his wife; 'the atmosphere is horrible.'
She went over to one of the windows, and flung open the sash. 'That's a comfortable thing to do,' he said, coming over to her, 'to open my window on a snowy night.'
'Snowy, Brian! Why, it's summer—a lovely night!'
'Summer! nonsense. Don't you see the snow? Why, it's falling thickly. Look at the flakes—like feathers. Look, look!' He pointed out of the window into the clear moonlit air, and tried to catch imaginary snowflakes with his long, nervous fingers.
'Brian, you must know that it is summer-time,' Ida said, firmly. 'Look at the woods—those deep masses of shadow from the oaks and beeches—in all the beauty of their summer foliage.
'Yes; it's odd, isn't it?—midsummer, and a snow-storm!'
'What have you been doing with all those things?'
'Packing. I must go to London early to-morrow. I have an appointment with the architect.'