It was as though the
stern and constant wrestle of the mind had burned away all lesser
things--the old, easy grace, the old, careless pleasure in life.
"I think you know," began the Dean, clearing his throat, "why I asked
you to see me?"
"You wished, I think, to speak to me--about my wife," said Ashe, with
difficulty.
Under his sheltering hand, his eyes looked straight before him into the
fire.
The Dean fidgeted a moment, lifted a small Greek vase on the
mantel-piece, and set it down--then turned round.
"I heard from her ten days ago--the most piteous letter. As you know, I
had always a great regard for her. The news of last year was a sharp
sorrow to me--as though she had been a daughter. I felt I must see her.
So I put myself into the train and went to Venice."
Ashe started a little, but said nothing.
"Or, rather, to Treviso, for, as I think you know, she is there with
Lady Alice."
"Yes, that I had heard."
The Dean paused again, then moved a little nearer to Ashe, looking down
upon him.
"May I ask--stop me if I seem impertinent--how much you know of the
history of the winter?"
"Very little!" said Ashe, in a low voice.
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