“I think I never heard so singular a name in my life,” Mr. Pole ejaculated seriously.  “Braintop!  It’ll always make me think of brandy.  What are you waiting for now?”

“I took the liberty of waiting before, to say that a lady wished to see you, sir.”

Mr. Pole started from his chair.  “A foreign lady?”

“She may be foreign.  She speaks English, sir, and her name, I think, was foreign.  I’ve forgotten it, I fear.”

“It’s the wife of that fellow from Riga!” cried the merchant.  “Show her in.  Show her in, immediately.  I suspected this.  She’s in London, I know.  I’m equal to her:  show her in.  When you fetch the Braintop and biscuit, call me to the door.  You understand.”

The youth affected meekly to enjoy this fiery significance given to his name, and said that he understood, without any doubt.  He retired, and in a few moments ushered in Emilia Belloni.

Mr. Pole was in the middle of the room, wearing a countenance of marked severity, and watchful to maintain it in his opening bow; but when he perceived his little Brookfield guest standing timidly in the doorway, his eyebrows lifted, and his hands spread out; and “Well, to be sure!” he cried; while Emilia hurried up to him.  She had to assure him that everything was right at home, and was next called upon to state what had brought her to town; but his continued exclamation of “Bless my soul!” reprieved her reply, and she sat in a chair panting quickly.

Mr. Pole spoke tenderly of refreshments; wine and cake, or biscuits.

“I cannot eat or drink,” said Emilia.

“Why, what’s come to you, my dear?” returned Mr. Pole in unaffected wonder.

“I am not hungry.”

“You generally are, at home, about this time—­eh?”

Emilia sighed, and feigned the sad note to be a breath of fatigue.

“Well, and why are you here, my dear?” Mr. Pole was beginning to step to the right and the left of her uneasily.

“I have come—­” she paused, with a curious quick speculating look between her eyes; “I have come to see you.”

“See me, my dear?  You saw me this morning.”

“Yes; I wanted to see you alone.”

Emilia was having the first conflict with her simplicity; out of which it was not to issue clear, as in the foregone days.  She was thinking of the character of the man she spoke to, studying him, that she might win him to succour the object she had in view.  It was a quality going, and a quality coming; nor will we, if you please, lament a law of growth.

“Why, you can see me alone, any day, my dear,” said Mr. Pole; “for many a day, I hope.”

“You are more alone to me here.  I cannot speak at Brookfield.  Oh!”—­and Emilia had to still her heart’s throbbing—­“you do not want me to go to Italy, do you?”

“Want you to go?  Not a bit.  There is some talk of it, isn’t there?  I don’t want you to go.  Don’t you want to go.”