His mere presence entangled the plainest matter into a confused cocoon, with himself struggling in the middle.
Wentworth must save the old autocrat from putting himself in the wrong, when he was so plainly in the right.

Wentworth must at any rate, if he could do nothing else this morning, read his letters, which had accumulated during his short absence.
Without moving from his chair he turned over, with a groan, the pile of envelopes waiting for him at his elbow.

Invitations, bills, tenants' complaints, an unexpected dividend.

It was all one to him.

The Bishop of Lostford--so his secretary wrote--accepted Wentworth's invitation to dine and sleep at Barford that night, after holding a confirmation at Saundersfoot.