He was better yesterday,
but it is hardly likely that he will come this morning.
"Poor man!" said the Dean, gently distressed. "I heard something...That
was the result, I'm afraid, of his fracas that morning in the High Street;
he must be most seriously unwell."
"Poor man, poor man!" was echoed by everybody; it was evident also that
general relief was felt. He could not now be expected to be present.
The door opened, and he came in. He came hurriedly, a number of papers in
one hand, wearing just the old anxious look of important care that they
knew so well. And yet how changed he was! Instead of moving at once to his
place at the long table he hesitated, looked at Bentinck-Major, at Foster,
then at Bond, half-puzzled, as though he had never seen them before.
"I must apologise, gentlemen," he said, "for being late. My watch, I'm
afraid, was slow."
The Dean then showed quite unexpected qualities.
"Will you sit here on my right, Archdeacon?" he said in a firm and almost
casual voice. "We are a little late, I fear, but no matter--no matter. We
are all present, I think, save Archdeacon Witheram, who is at Drymouth,
and from whom I have received a letter.
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