“Does he?” said Emilia, involuntarily examining the one by her side.

“We don’t show our gold-linings, in the City, my dear.”

“But, you are rich, too.”

“Oh!  I—­as far as that goes.  Don’t talk about me.  I’m—­I’m still cold in the feet.  Now, look at that corner house.  Three months ago that man was one of our most respected City merchants.  Now he’s a bankrupt, and can’t show his head.  It was all rotten.  A medlar!  He tampered with documents; betrayed trusts.  What do you think of him?”

“What was it he did?” asked Emilia.

Mr. Pole explained, and excused him; then he explained, and abused him.

“He hadn’t a family, my dear.  Where did the money go?  He’s called a rascal now, poor devil!  Business brings awful temptations.  You think, this’ll save me!  You catch hold of it and it snaps.  That’ll save me; but you’re too heavy, and the roots give way, and down you go lower and lower.  Lower and lower!  The gates of hell must be very low down if one of our bankrupts don’t reach ’em.”  He spoke this in a deep underbreath.  “Let’s get out of the City.  There’s no air.  Look at that cloud.  It’s about over Brookfield, I should say.”

“Dear Brookfield!” echoed Emilia, feeling her heart fly forth to sing like a skylark under the cloud.

“And they’re not satisfied with it,” murmured Mr:  Pole, with a voice of unwonted bitterness.

At the hotel, he was received very cordially by Mrs. Chickley, and Simon, the old waiter.

“You look as young as ever, ma’am,” Mr. Pole complimented her cheerfully, while he stamped his feet on the floor, and put forward Emilia as one of his girls; but immediately took the landlady aside, to tell her that she was “merely a charge—­a ward—­something of that sort;” admitting, gladly enough, that she was a very nice young lady.  “She’s a genius, ma’am, in music:—­going to do wonders.  She’s not one of them.”  And Mr. Pole informed Mrs. Chickley that when they came to town, they usually slept in one or other of the great squares.  He, for his part, preferred old quarters:  comfort versus grandeur.

Simon had soon dressed the dinner-table.  By the time dinner was ready, Mr. Pole had sunk into such a condition of drowsiness, that it was hard to make him see why he should be aroused, and when he sat down, fronting Emilia, his eyes were glazed, and he complained that she was scarcely visible.

“Some of your old yellow seal, Simon.  That’s what I want.  I haven’t got better at home.”

The contents of this old yellow seal formed the chief part of the merchant’s meal.  Emilia was induced to drink two full glasses.

“Doesn’t that make your feet warm, my dear?” said Mr. Pole.

“It makes me want to talk,” Emilia confessed.

“Ah! we shall have some fun to-night.  “To-the-rutte-ta-to!” If you could only sing, “Begone dull care!” I like glees:  good, honest, English, manly singing for me!  Nothing like glees and madrigals, to my mind.  With chops and baked potatoes, and a glass of good stout, they beat all other music.”