Then came Bazeley. How much did he owe the Bazeley stable? He certainly could not be bothered to look up all these details; he knew about what it would be. It would be about sixty, or, say, seventy pounds. He would write down “75” to be on the safe side—and he was. For Mr Bazeley, who was a poor hand at book-keeping, had written out a bill at random that very afternoon, and this bill, after some thought, he had put at £73, 15s. 9d., an addition which he had simplified by the formula, “Act. rendered.” Cosmo was searching mentally among the “B’s,” and had found Belper—say, twenty-eight pounds, when he suddenly remembered Bailey the Bookbinder. The bill was a small one, not more than four or five pounds at the outside—say six—but it annoyed him because “Bai” comes before “Bar.” He squeezed it in at the top and went on with his work. Within an hour, after many erasures and transpositions, he had completed the “B’s.” There were sixteen of them, for B is the commonest of initials; still, there were sixteen. They came between them to a trifle over £300, did the “B’s.” He was turning to the letter C with a heavy heart, when he suddenly remembered two “A’s”—Alfred the photographer, and Aiken, of whom he had bought the saddles. He took up a fresh sheet to make a new list, wrote down their names, and then angrily crumpled up the whole and threw it into the fire. What could all this do for him? He owed five hundred, perhaps six—probably nearer seven—call it seven.... Anyhow he had the prospect and the power of paying.... But as he looked fixedly at the paper, burning before him like an expiation, a lumbering step came up the stone stairs without, he answered a heavy uncertain knock, and there entered something of more moment even than his debts: the considerable form and purpose of Mr Capes. He had his hat in his hand and bore a sapling to walk with; his gaiters were muddy and so were his heavy boots; but he was dressed in his best, his scanty hair was very carefully oiled, and a fine new comforter adorned his neck. He came in with respectful hesitation, and stood a moment near the door. Cosmo stood up at once. “Come in, Mr Capes,” he said, “what is it?” “Why,” said Mr Capes slowly; “thank you, sir, it’s just a little matter.... I”; and here he looked down at the carpet and followed the pattern with the end of his sapling. “Come up to the fire and sit down,” said Cosmo. “Have something.” It was a nervous peculiarity of his, common enough in our Universities with their years of arduous study, that he could not keep his eyes on anyone’s face; but he spoke cheerfully enough. Mr Capes came up and sat down by the fire. “What do you drink, Mr Capes?” said Cosmo. [Illustration: MR CAPES (A CHANCE STUDY MADE FOR THE PUBLISHERS OF “RURAL ENGLAND.” NO OTHER PORTRAIT WAS OBTAINABLE)] “Claret wine, thank you, sir,” answered Mr Capes.