In the middle of it he missed his shaving-brush.

He hunted for it furiously; he could have sworn that he had taken it out of his portmanteau.

He did swear, but not to any definite fact.

There was nothing for it: he must expose his tender chin to the cruel razor of a village barber.
Then he disliked the look of his tweed suit; all traces of mud had not vanished from it.

In one short night it had lost its pristine freshness.