There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind Junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island.

“My dear Tom,” said Harthouse, “let me try to be your banker.”

“For God’s sake,” replied Tom, suddenly, “don’t talk about bankers!” And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white.