that," said Michael with a flicker of interest.
"Now you mention it--yes. That's the very thing. I should like--a
change."

Wentworth came forward at once.

"Norway?" he said eagerly, "or Switzerland. We must be guided by you,
doctor. Or a yacht? You used to be fond of yachting, Michael. We will go
anywhere you like."

Michael's face fell.

The doctor leaned back and examined his finger tips. He had seen what he
wanted.

"The yacht won't do," he said with decision. "And Norway's out of the
question. Much too far. In fact, there's only one place that will do."

"Where is that?" said Wentworth.

"I don't know yet. Where is it, Mr. Carstairs?"

"I should like," said Michael, colouring painfully, for he knew he was
going to hurt Wentworth, "I should like to go to Lostford; not for long,
just for a little bit."

"Lostford!" exclaimed Wentworth, amazed. "Lostford, down in that hole.
Oh! no."

"Well, and why not Lostford?" said the doctor with asperity. "Mr.
Carstairs shows his sense. He is not up to a long journey. Quite near.
Interesting cathedral. Cultivated society. I should have suggested
Lostford myself if he had not."

"I will ride over and take rooms at the 'Prince Consort' to-day," said
Wentworth meekly.

"You will do no such thing. Are you taking leave of your senses. Your
brother is not fit to stay in a rackety hotel."

"The Bishop has asked me," said Michael faintly, "to spend a week or two
with him whenever I like. I believe--it's very quiet there."

"The Bishop!" said Wentworth. "It would be far from quiet at the Palace.
Worse than an hotel. The Bishop lives in a perpetual turmoil."

Then he suddenly stopped short, and became very red. Michael preferred
the Bishop to himself.

"It's a good idea," said the doctor. "I know the Bishop. Splendid man.
The best of company." He got up with decision. "My orders are, Mr.
Carstairs, that you proceed to Lostford without delay. How far is it?
Six miles. Go to-morrow." Then he turned to Wentworth. "You will go over
and see him in a week's time, and report to me."

"You think him worse," said Wentworth nervously to the doctor in the
hall.

"No," said the doctor emphatically, watching his motor sliding to the
door, "but he is not better. He is anxious about something, and he can't
afford to be anxious. He is not in a fit state to have a finger ache
with impunity."

"He has nothing to be anxious about," said Wentworth. "And if he had a
trouble I should