Great Yafford on a December afternoon was about as ugly a town as one need care to see; but it was busy and prosperous, and seemed to take an honest pride in its ugliness, so stoutly did its vestry and corporation oppose any movement in the direction of beauty. There was one street of ample breadth and length, intersected by a great many narrow streets. There was a grimy looking canal, along which still grimier coal barges crept stealthily under the dull gray sky. There were great piles of buildings devoted to the purposes of commerce; factories, warehouses, gas works, dye works, oil works, soap works, bone works, all vying with one another in hideousness, and in the production of unsavoury odours. Ugly as Great Yafford was, however, there was nothing Bella Scratchell enjoyed so much as a visit to Tower Gate, the broad street above-named, and a leisurely contemplation of the well-furnished shop windows, where the fashions, as that morning received from Paris, were to be seen gratis by the penniless gazer. Banbury and Banburys’, the chief drapers, afforded Bella as much delight as a lover of pictures derives from a noble gallery. She would have seen the Venus of Milo for the first time with less excitement than she felt on beholding ‘our latest novelties in Paris mantles,’ or ‘our large importation of silks from the great Lyons houses.’ ‘Drive slowly, please, Beatrix,’ said Bella, as they entered Tower Gate; ‘I should like to have a look at Banburys’, though it can’t make any difference to me, for I have bought my winter things.’ ‘You can look as long as you like, Bella. I am going in to buy some gloves, and a few little things. Perhaps you would like to go in with me.’ ‘I should very much, dear. They have always such lovely things inside.’