He was very weary, and as he sought disconsolately through all his
pockets for the wherewithal to pay his fly, while the spring rain
pattered on his wide-awake, he produced an impression as of some
delicate, draggled thing, which would certainly have gone to the heart
of his adoring wife could she have beheld it. The Dean's ways were not
sybaritic. He pecked at food and drink like a bird; his clothes never
caused him a moment's thought; and it seemed to him a waste of the night
to use it for sleeping. But none the less did he go through life finely
looked after. Mrs. Winston dressed him, took his tickets and paid his
cabs, and without her it was an arduous matter for the Dean to arrive at
any destination whatever. As it was, in the journey from Paris he had
lost one of the two bags which Mrs. Winston had packed for him, and he
looked remorsefully at the survivor as it was deposited on the steps
beside him.
It did not, however, remain on the steps. For when Lady Alice's
maid-housekeeper appeared, she informed the Dean, with a certain flurry
of manner, that the ladies were not at home. They had gone off that
morning--suddenly--to Venice, leaving a letter for him, should he
arrive.
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