"My girls," he said to her in an undertone, "never come here. Well! we don't expect ladies, you know. Different spheres in this world. They mean to be tip-top in society; and quite right too. My dear, I think we'll ride. Do you mind being seen in a cab?" He asked her hesitatingly: and when Emilia said, "Oh, no! let us ride," he seemed relieved. "I can't see the harm in a cab. Different tastes, in this world. My girls--but, thank the Lord! they've got carriages." For an hour the merchant and Emilia drove about the City. He showed her all the great buildings, and dilated on the fabulous piles of wealth they represented, taking evident pleasure in her exclamations of astonishment. "Yes, yes; they may despise us City fellows. I say, 'Come and see": that's all! Now, look up that court. Do you see three dusty windows on the second floor? That man there could buy up any ten princes in Europe --excepting one or two Austrians or Russians. He wears a coat just like mine." "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.