'The way he went on, Ida. I stopped outside his door ever so long listening to him. He walked up and down like a mad-man, throwing things about, talking and muttering to himself all the time. I think he was packing his portmanteau.' 'There is nothing so dreadful in that--nothing to alarm you.' 'Oh! Ida, when a person is once out of their mind, there is no knowing what they may do.' Ida did all in her power to soothe and reassure the frightened little woman, and, having done this, she went straight to her husband's room. She knocked two or three times without receiving any answer; then came a sullen refusal: 'I don't want to be worried by anyone. You can go to your own room, and leave me alone.' 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.' 'What architect?' 'The man who is to plan the alterations for this house. I shall make great alterations, you know, now that the place is yours. I am going to build an underground riding school, like that at Welbeck.' 'The place mine? What are you dreaming of?' 'Of course it is yours, now Vernon is dead. You were to inherit everything at his death. You cannot have forgotten that.' 'Vernon dead! Why, Brian, he is snug and safe in his room a little way off. I have seen him within this half-hour.' 'You are a fool,' he said; 'he died nearly three months ago. You are the sole owner of this place, and I am going to make it the finest mansion in the county.'