I leave the others in the warm-lit drawing-room, briskly talking and discussing the scene we have quitted, and slip away through the door, into a dark and empty adjacent anteroom, where the fire lies at death's door, low and dull, and the candles are unlighted.
I draw the curtains, unbar the shutters, and, lifting the heavy sash, look out.

A cold, still air, sharp and clear, at once greets my face with its frosty kisses.

Below me, the great house-shadow projects in darkness, and beyond it lies a great and dazzling field of shining snow, asleep in the moonlight.
Snow-trees, snow-bushes, sparkle up against the dusk quiet of the sky.
No movement anywhere! absolute stillness! perfect silence! It is broken now, this silence, by the church-clock with slow wakefulness chiming twelve.

Those slow strokes set me a thinking.

I hear no longer the loud and lively voices next door, the icy penetration of the air is unfelt by me, as I lean, with my elbow on the sill, looking out at the cold grace of the night.