“It means some one who doesn’t object to pay a good price for anything that really suits him.  There are some people of course who won’t consider a thing unless they can get it for about a third of what they imagine to be its market value.  I’ve got another suggestion down against you in my book; you may not be staying in the country at all, you may be clearing out in disgust at existing conditions.  In that case you would be selling a lot of things that you wouldn’t want to cart away with you.  That involves another set of entries and a whole lot of cross references.”

“I’m afraid I’ve given you a lot of trouble,” said Yeovil drily.

“Not at all,” said Herlton, “but it would simplify matters if we take it for granted that you are going to stay here, for this winter anyhow, and are looking out for hunters.  Can you lunch with me here on Wednesday, and come and look at the animal afterwards?  It’s only thirty-five minutes by train.  It will take us longer if we motor.  There is a two-fifty-three from Charing Cross that we could catch comfortably.”

“If you are going to persuade me to hunt in the East Wessex country this season,” said Yeovil, “you must find me a convenient hunting box somewhere down there.”

“I have found it,” said Herlton, whipping out a stylograph, and hastily scribbling an “order to view” on a card; “central as possible for all the meets, grand stabling accommodation, excellent water-supply, big bathroom, game larder, cellarage, a bakehouse if you want to bake your own bread—­”

“Any land with it?”

“Not enough to be a nuisance.  An acre or two of paddock and about the same of garden.  You are fond of wild things; a wood comes down to the edge of the garden, a wood that harbours owls and buzzards and kestrels.”

“Have you got all those details in your book?” asked Yeovil; “’wood adjoining property, O.B.K.’”

“I keep those details in my head,” said Herlton, “but they are quite reliable.”

“I shall insist on something substantial off the rent if there are no buzzards,” said Yeovil; “now that you have mentioned them they seem an indispensable accessory to any decent hunting-box.  Look,” he exclaimed, catching sight of a plump middle-aged individual, crossing the vestibule with an air of restrained importance, “there goes the delectable Pitherby.  Does he come on your books at all?”

“I should say!” exclaimed Herlton fervently.  “The delectable P. nourishes expectations of a barony or viscounty at an early date.  Most of his life has been spent in streets and squares, with occasional migrations to the esplanades of fashionable watering-places or the gravelled walks of country house gardens.  Now that noblesse is about to impose its obligations on him, quite a new catalogue of wants has sprung into his mind.  There are things that a plain esquire may leave undone without causing scandalised remark, but a fiercer light beats