about Francie's gown, and up north to bracing Scotland, and down to
Wellwood for Christmas, and back to the racket of London in the spring;
and neither of them had spent a lonelier time in all their lives. Quite
a fresh and peculiar sense of homelessness and uncomforted old age took
possession of them both.

All through the kaleidoscopic transformation-scenes of the "season",
through which she moved magnificently, old-maidhood notwithstanding,
she was unconsciously seeking him. It was her impression, from all she
had heard of his tastes and ways, that he could not keep away from that
common rendezvous of his class and kind. She did not find him,
but all the same he was there. He returned from his winter haunts
sooner than his wont, while still the April winds were full of menace
for him, exposed himself to those winds seeking her, caught a chill,
neglected it--a most unusual thing--and fell into an illness that
confined him to his bed for many weeks.

It was not until June that Deb heard of it. He was truly so much of an
old fogey now in the society of which he had once been such a
distinguished ornament that his disappearance was long unnoticed. And
when at last someone noticed it, in Deb's hearing, the light and
callous way in which his trouble was referred to went to her heart--
knowing all she knew. One of her generous impulses came to her on the
spot, and an hour later she was at the door of his chambers, inquiring
after him.

His man--a very jewel of a man--received her at the door, gravely,
cautiously, keeping it half shut. He reported his master mending, but
still weak, and not able to see anyone. Females of all kinds were
sternly discouraged by this prudent person, from force of old habit.