Arthur was thinking of this as he rode into town one morning in November, his back turned to the hills and the romance of them, his face to the plain. It was early in the month. St. Luke’s summer, prolonged that year, had come to an end a day or two before, and the air was raw, the outlook sombre. Under a canopy of grey mist, the thinning hedge-rows and dripping woods showed dark against clear blue distances. But in the warmth of his thoughts the rider was proof against weather, and when he came to the sedgy spot, never more dreary to the view than to-day, which Thomas had chosen for his attack on the Squire, he smiled. That little patch of ground had done much for him, but at a price, of course—for there he had lost a friend, a good easy friend in Clement. And Betty—Betty, whose coolness had caused him more than one honest pang—he had no doubt that there had come a change in her, too, from that date. But one had to pay a price for everything, and these were but small spots on the sun of his success. Soon he had put the thought of them from him, and, abreast of the first houses of the town, began to employ his mind on the work of the day—revolving this and that, matters outside routine which would demand his attention. He knew what was likely to arise. Rarely in these days did he enter Aldersbury without a feeling of elation. The very air of the town inspired him. The life of the streets, the movement of the markets, the sight of the shopkeepers at their doors, the stir and bustle had their appeal for him. He felt himself on his own ground; it was here and not in the waste places that his work lay, here that he was formed to conquer, here that he was conquering fortune. Garth was very well—a grand, a splendid reserve; but as he rode up the steep streets to the bank, he felt that here was his vocation. He sniffed the battle, his eyes grew brighter, his figure more alert. From some Huguenot ancestor had descended the Huguenot appetite for business, the Huguenot ability to succeed. This morning, however, he did not reach the bank in his happiest mood. Purslow, the irrepressible Purslow, stopped him, with a long face and a plaint to match. “Those Antwerp shares, Mr. Bourdillon! Excuse me, have you heard? They’re down again—down twenty-five since Wednesday! And that’s on to five, as they fell the week before! Thirty down, sir! I’m in a regular stew about it! Excuse me, sir, but if they fall much more——” “You’ve held too long, Purslow,” Arthur replied. “I told you it was a quick shot. A fortnight ago you’d have got out with a good profit. Why didn’t you?” “But they were rising—rising nicely. And I thought, sir——” “You thought you’d hold them for a bit more? That was the long and short of it, wasn’t it? Well, my advice to you now is to get out while you can make a profit.” “Sell?” the draper exclaimed. “Now?” It is hard to say what he had expected, but something more than this. “But I should not clear more than—why, I shouldn’t make——”