the Bishop of Lostford. That is why he is not here
now. The Bishop is inducting the new Rector of Wrigley this afternoon,
and he sent a wire this morning--he is always doing things at the last
moment--he never considers others--to say that he would call at Barford
on his way to see Michael. Michael is his godson, and he has always been
fond of him. I left them together."

Magdalen and Fay sipped their coffee in silence.

"Michael had been as inert and apathetic as usual," continued Wentworth
sullenly, "until the Bishop appeared. The Bishop took him off into the
garden, though I said I did not like his going out so soon after
dressing--he was only just up--and it was perfectly plain they did not
want me. I believe that was why they went out. I was of no account. The
Bishop has always been like that, your friend one day, and oblivious of
you the next. But he and Michael seemed to have a great deal to say to
each other. I watched them from the library walking up and down. Michael
can walk quite well when he wants to. Then when the victoria came
round--I thought he would find that less fatiguing than the dogcart--I
went to tell him that it was time to start, but he only stared vaguely
at me, and the Bishop took his arm and said that you must excuse him for
this once, as he did not mean to let him go at that moment. So I came
away without him."

"There will be many more opportunities of seeing us, and one must clutch
what few chances one can of seeing the Bishop," said Magdalen.

"When I went to warn Michael that the carriage was there," continued
Wentworth, "he did not see me till I was quite near--there was a bush
between--and I could not help hearing him say, 'That was half an hour
before I was arrested.'"

There was an uneasy silence.

"It seems," said Wentworth with exceeding bitterness, "that I have not
Michael's confidence. The Bishop has it, but I, his only brother. Oh,
no. He can talk to the Bishop about his imprisonment, but to me--not a
word, not a single word. At first when we were together at Venice I
asked him quietly about it once or twice. I asked him why he had never
said a word to _me_ about it at the time, why he had not confided to me
at any rate that he was shielding the Marchesa, but I soon saw that the
subject distressed him. He always became confused, and he never would
reply. Once, since we were back at Barford, when he seemed clearer, I
asked him most earnestly to tell me one thing, whether he