"Well, my dear, this unfortunate--I may call him 'lover,' for if a man does not stamp the truth of his affection with a pistol, what other means has he? And just a word as to romance. I have been sighing for it--no one would think so--all my life. And who would have thought that these poor Poles should have lived to convince me of the folly! Oh, delicious humdrum!--there is nothing like it. But you are anxious, naturally. Poor Sir Purcell Barren--he may or may not have been mad, but when he was brought to the house at Brookfield--quite by chance--I mean, his body-- two labouring men found him by a tree--I don't know whether you remembered a pollard-willow that stood all white and rotten by the water in the fir-wood:--well, as I said, mad or not, no sooner did poor Cornelia see him than she shrieked that she was the cause of his death. He was laid in the hall--which I have so often trod! and there Cornelia sat by his poor dead body, and accused Wilfrid and her father of every unkindness. They say that the scene was terrible. Wilfrid--but I need not tell you his character. He flutters from flower to flower, but he has feeling Now comes the worst of all--in one sense; that is, looking on it as people of the world; and being in the world, we must take a worldly view occasionally. Mr. Pole--you remember how he behaved once at Besworth: or, no; you were not there, but he used your name. His mania was, as everybody could see, to marry his children grandly. I don't blame him in any way. Still, he was not justified in living beyond his means to that end, speculating rashly, and concealing his actual circumstances. Well, Mr. Pericles and he were involved together; that is, Mr. Pericles--" "Is Mr. Pericles near us now?" said Emilia quickly.