"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." They all found their places. Ronder was as usual exactly opposite to Brandon. Foster slouched into his seat with his customary air of absentmindedness. Ryle tried not to look at Brandon, but his eyes were fascinated and seemed to swim in their watery fashion like fish fascinated by a bait.
"Shall we open with a prayer," said the Dean, "and ask God's blessing on this morning's work?"
They prayed with bent heads. Brandon's head was bent longer than the others.
When he looked up he stared about him as though completely bewildered.
"As you all know," the Dean said in his softly urgent voice, as though he were pressing them to give him flowers for his collection, "our meeting this morning is of the first urgency. I will, with your approval, postpone general business until the more ordinary meeting of next week. That is if no one has any objection to such a course?"