"Wentworth is coming here this morning," said the Bishop gently. "He may arrive at any moment. Stay here and speak to him. And ask him to forgive you, Fay. You need his forgiveness."
"I don't know how to tell him," gasped Fay. "I tried yesterday, and I couldn't."
"Let me tell him," said Michael, and as he spoke, the door opened once more, and Wentworth was announced.
He had got ready what he meant to say. The venomous sentences which he had concocted during a sleepless night were all in order in his mind.
Who shall say what grovelling suspicions, what sordid conjectures, had blocked his inflamed mind as he drove swiftly across the downs in the still June morning? He meant to extort an explanation from his brother, to have the whole subject out with him once for all. He should not be suffered to make Fay his accomplice for another hour. His tepid spirit burned within him when he thought of Michael's behaviour to Fay. He said to himself that he could forgive that least of all.
He had expected to find Michael alone, or possibly the Bishop only with him, the Bishop who knew. He was disconcerted at finding Fay and Magdalen there before him.
A horrible suspicion that Magdalen also knew darted across his mind.
It was obvious to him that he had broken up a conference, a conspiracy. His bitter face darkened still more.
"I don't know what you are all plotting about so early in the morning," he said. "I must apologise for interrupting you. I seem to be always in the way now-a-days. People are always whispering behind my back. But I have come over to see Michael. I want a few plain words with him without delay, and I intend to have them."
"That is well," said the Bishop, "because you are about to have them. We were speaking of you when you came in."