“To be sure you are! I should think so. You haven't got a penny; but, then, you're not for spending one. And”--Mr. Pole nodded to right and left like a man who silenced a host of invisible logicians, urging this and that--“you're a pleasant companion, thrifty, pretty, musical: by Jingo! what more do they want? They'll have their song and chop at home.” “Yes; but suppose it depends upon their fathers?” “Well, if their fathers will be fools, my dear, I can't help 'em. We needn't take 'em in a lump: how about the doctor? I'll see him to-morrow morning, and hear what he has to say. Shall I?” Mr. Pole winked shrewdly. “You will not make my heart break?” Emilia's voice sounded one low chord as she neared the thing she had to say. “Bless her soul!” the old merchant patted her; “I'm not the sort of man for that.” “Nor his?” “His?” Mr. Pole's nerves became uneasy in a minute, at the scent of a mystification. He dashed his handkerchief over his forehead, repeating: “His? Break a man's heart! I? What's the meaning of that? For God's sake, don't bother me!” Emilia was still kneeling before him, eyeing him with a shadowed steadfast air. “I say his, because his heart is in mine. He has any pain that hurts me.” “He may be tremendously in love,” observed Mr. Pole; “but he seems a deuced soft sort of a doctor! What's his name?” “I love Wilfrid.” The merchant appeared to be giving ear to her, long after the words had been uttered, while there was silence in the room. “Wilfrid? my son?” he cried with a start. “He is my lover.” “Damned rascal!” Mr. Pole jumped from his chair. “Going and playing with an unprotected girl. I can pardon a young man's folly, but this is infamous. My dear child,” he turned to Emilia, “if you've got any notion about my son Wilfrid, you must root it up as quick as you can. If he's been behaving like a villain, leave him to me. I detest, I hate, I loathe, I would kick, a young man who deceives a girl. Even if he's my son!--more's the reason!” Mr. Pole was walking up and down the room, fuming as he spoke. Emilia tried to hold his hand, as he was passing, but he said: “There, my child! I'm very sorry for you, and I'm damned angry with him. Let me go.” “Can you, can you be angry with him for loving me?” “Deceiving you,” returned Mr. Pole; “that's what it is. And I tell you, I'd rather fifty times the fellow had deceived me. Anything rather than that he should take advantage of a girl.” “Wilfrid loves me and would die for me,” said Emilia. “Now, let me tell you the fact,” Mr. Pole came to a halt, fronting her. “My son Wilfrid Pole may be in love, as he says, here and there, but he is engaged to be married to a lady of title. I have his word--his oath. He got near a thousand pounds out of my pocket the other day on that understanding. I don't speak about the money, but--now--it's a lump--others would have made a nice row about it--but is he a liar? Is he a seducing, idling, vagabond dog? Is he a contemptible scoundrel?”