be the first to hear of it. I have his entire
confidence--at least, I had till lately. I must own he has become very
changed of late. Of course, I never appear to notice it, but----"

"Quite right. Quite right. I wish others were as sagacious as you are.
Let him go to Lostford for a week or two--and get you off his nerves,"
the doctor added to himself as the motor shot down the beech avenue.

* * * * *

A few days later Wentworth was sitting idly watching the stream of
Piccadilly from the windows of his club. The same day that Michael had
gone to Lostford he had discovered that he had business in London. He
would have found it difficult to say what his business there was. But
one of Wentworth's many theories about himself was that he was a very
busy man. He had so constantly given "urgent business" as a reason for
evading uncongenial social engagements that he had finished by believing
himself to be overwhelmed with arduous affairs. So he went to London,
and visited a publisher anent his forthcoming history of Sussex, and
dined with a man whom he met at Lord's, whom he had not seen for years,
and wrote daily to Fay, expressing ardent but vague hopes that he might
be able to "get away" from London by the end of the week.

He was in no hurry to return.

A vague fear of something grievously amiss with Michael, he knew not
what; an unformulated anxiety weighed upon him. And he was jealous.
Jealousy had brought him up to London. He was not going to remain
deserted at Barford. Jealousy was keeping him there now. He had seen
that Michael was glad to get away from him, that he had caught at the
doctor's suggestion of a change. His sullen heart was very sore about
Michael. Why did he _want_ to leave him? Where would he meet anyone more
devoted to him than himself? What could any man do for another that he
had not done for Michael? Was it true then, after all, what he had so
often heard was the fate of men of deep affections like himself, that
they give all, and are given nothing in return.

A sudden exclamation made him look up.

"Why, Maine, is it you?"

A tall, bald man was holding out his hand to him. For a moment Wentworth
did not recognise him. Then he remembered him. Lord John Alington.

He shook hands with tepid civility, but Lord John always mistook a
pained recognition for an enthusiastic welcome. He drew up a chair at
once.

"Now this is what I call luck," he said, his red fac