He had other things to think of, indeed, for he was in high feather in these days, while the summer sun climbed slowly to the zenith and began again to sink. He had two-fold interests. After a long day spent in the bank he would ride out of town in the cool of the evening, and passing down the winding streets under the gables of the old black and white houses, he would cross the West Bridge. Bucketing his horse up the rise that led from the river, he would leave the town behind and see before him the road running straight and dusty towards the sunset-glow, which still shone above the Welsh hills. From the fields on either side came the sharp sound of the scythe-stone, the laughter of hay-makers, the call of the wagoner to his team, the creaking of the laden wheels over the turf. Partridges dusting themselves in the road scuttled out of his way and presently took wing; rabbits watched him from the covert-edge. The corncrake’s persistent note spoke rather of the hot hours that were past than of the evening air that cooled his cheek. An aged simpleton in a smocked frock, the clown of the country-side, danced a jig before an ale-house; a stray bullock gazed patiently at him from a pound. The country-side lay quiet about him, and despite himself he owned the charm of peace, the fall of night, the end of labor. But his thoughts still dwelt on the day’s work. There had been a discussion over Wolley’s account. Wolley had been behaving ill. Ignoring the claim of the bank he had assigned a number of his railway shares to meet a bill discounted elsewhere. The natural course would have been to insist on the lien and to retain the shares. But the consequences, as Ovington saw, might be serious. The step might not only involve the bank in a loss, which he still hoped to avoid, but it might imply taking over the mill—and it is not the business of bankers to run mills. Arthur, on the other hand, who did not like the man, would have cut the knot and sent him to the devil. In the end Ovington had decided against Arthur. “We must be careful,” the banker had said. “Credit is like a house of cards. You take one card away, you do not know how many may fall.” “But if we don’t teach him a lesson now?” “Quite true, lad. But—well, I will see him. If, as Rodd thinks, he is drawing bills on men of straw, whose acceptances are worthless——” “That would be the devil!” “There will be an end of him—but not of him only. We must go warily, lad. To throw him down now——” the banker shook his head. “No, we will give him one more chance. I will talk to him.” “I should not have the patience.” “That is one of the things you have to learn.”