"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."