But at the heart of Stamboul the dust lay thick, and there was dew at the heart of Welsley.
Perhaps green Elis, with its sheep-bells, the eternal voices of its pine trees, the celestial benignity of its Hermes, was more to be desired than either Stamboul or Welsley. But for the moment Welsley was very desirable.
Dion gave his bag to an “outside porter,” and walked to the Precincts with the Archdeacon.
He found Rosamund uplifted and triumphant; Mr. Thrush had finally captivated the Dean, and had been given the “situation” which Rosamund had desired for him. Her joy was almost ebullient. She could talk of nothing else. Mr. Thrush was to be installed on the following Sunday.
“Installed?” said Dion. “Is the Archbishop coming down to conduct the ceremony?”
“No, no! What I mean is that Mr. Thrush will walk in the procession for the first time. Oh, I shall be so nervous! If only he carries the wand as I’ve taught him! I don’t know what Mr. Thrush would do without me. He seems to depend on me for everything now, poor old gentleman.”
“I’m afraid he’ll miss you dreadfully,” said Dion.
“Miss me? When?”
Before he could answer she said quickly:
“Oh, by the way, Dion, while you’ve been away I’ve done something for you.”