change in men’s faces—from what they were this time two years? Even the farmers!” 

 “Well, they are doing well.” 

 “Better, at any rate. Better, even they. Yes, Mr. Wolley,” to a stout man, much wrapped up, who put himself in the way, “follow us, please. Sir Charles is waiting. Better,” Ovington continued to his companion, as the man fell behind, “and prices rising, and demand—demand spreading in everything.” 

 “Including Stocks?” 

 “Including Stocks. I’ve some news for Sir Charles, that, if he has any doubts about joining us, will fix him. Well, here we are, and I’m glad to be at home. We’ll go in by the house door, Arthur, or Betty will be disappointed.” 

 The bank stood on Bride Hill, looking along the High Street. The position was excellent and the house good. Still, it was no more than a house, for in 1825 banks were not the institutions that they have since become; they had still for rivals the old stocking and the cracked teapot, and among banks, Ovington’s at Aldersbury was neither of long standing nor of more than local repute. 

 Mr. Ovington led the way into the house, and had barely removed his hat when a girl flew down the wide oak staircase and flung herself upon him. “Oh, father!” she cried. “Here at last! Aren’t you cold? Aren’t you starving?” 

 “Pretty well for that,” he replied, stroking her hair in a way that proved that, whatever he was to others, he had a soft spot for his daughter. “Pretty well for that, Betty.” 

 “Well, there’s a good fire! Come and warm yourself!” 

 “That’s what I can’t do, my dear,” he said, taking off his great coat. “Business first.” 

 “But I thought you had done all that in London?” pouting. 

 “Not all, but some. I shall be an hour, perhaps more.” 

 She shot a mutinous glance at Arthur. “Why can’t he do it? And Mr. Rodd?” 

 “You think we are old enough, Betty?” 

 “Apprentices should be seen, and not heard!” she snapped. 

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