He had become a proficient skater, and frosty weather was now a luxury to him.
It braced him, and drove away his gloomy fits, whilst his sympathies were kept awake and his indignation maintained at an exhilarating pitch by the sufferings of the poor, who, unable to afford fires or skating, warmed themselves in such sweltering heat as overcrowding produces in all seasons.
It was Smilash's custom to make a hot drink of oatmeal and water for himself at half-past nine o'clock each evening, and to go to bed at ten.
He opened the door to throw out some water that remained in the saucepan from its last cleansing.

It froze as it fell upon the soil.

He looked at the night, and shook himself to throw off an oppressive sensation of being clasped in the icy ribs of the air, for the mercury had descended below the familiar region of crisp and crackly cold and marked a temperature at which the numb atmosphere seemed on the point of congealing into black solidity.

Nothing was stirring.
"By George!" he said, "this is one of those nights on which a rich man daren't think!" He shut the door, hastened back to his fire, and set to work at his caudle, which he watched and stirred with a solicitude that would have amused a professed cook.

When it was done he poured it into a large mug, where it steamed invitingly.