"I called you in half an hour ago," returned Mr. Pole, fumbling at his watch-fob. "It must have been somebody else, sir." "Did you bring in this directory? Look at it! This?" "This is the book that I brought in, sir." "How long since?" "I think, not a minute and a half, sir." Mr. Pole gazed at him, and coughed slowly. "I could have sworn..." he murmured, and commenced blinking. "I suppose I must be a little queer," he pursued; and instantly his right hand struck out, quivering. The young clerk grasped it, and drew him to a chair. "Tush," said his master, working his feverish fingers across his forehead. "Want of food. I don't eat like you young fellows. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit. Good wine, mind. Port. Or, no; you can't trust tavern Port:--brandy. Get it yourself, don't rely on the porter. And bring it yourself, you understand the importance? What is your name?" "Braintop," replied the youth, with the modesty of one whose name has been too frequently subjected to puns. "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.