“No! no!” said Emilia, with decisive fervour.

“Don’t want to go?”

“No:  to stay!  I want to stay!”

“Eh? to stay?”

“To stay with you!  Never to leave England, at least!  I want to give up all that I may stay.”

“All?” repeated Mr. Pole, evidently marvelling as to what that sounding box might contain; and still more, perplexed to hear Emilia’s vehement—­“Yes! all!” as if there were that in the mighty abnegation to make a reasonable listener doubtful.

“No.  I really don’t want you to go,” he said.  “In fact,” and the merchant’s hospitable nature was at war with something in his mind, “I like you, my dear; I like to have you about me.  You’re cheerful; you’re agreeable; I like your smile; your voice, too.  You’re a very pleasant companion.  Only, you know, we may break up our house.  If the girls get married, I must live somewhere in lodgings, and I couldn’t very well ask you to cook for me.”

“I can cook a little,” Emilia smiled.  “I went into the kitchen, till Adela objected.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t do, you know,” pursued Mr. Pole, with the seriousness of a man thrown out of his line of argument.  “You can cook, eh?  Got an idea of it?  I always said you were a useful little woman.  Do have a biscuit and some wine:—­No? well, where was I?—­That confounded boy.  Brainty-top, top! that’s it Braintop.  Was I talking of him, my dear?  Oh no! about your getting married.  For if you can cook, why not?  Get a husband and then you won’t got to Italy.  You ought to get one.  Some young fellows don’t look for money.”

“I shall make money come, in time,” said Emilia; in the leaping ardour of whose eyes might be seen that what she had journeyed to speak was hot within her.  “I know I shall be worth having.  I shall win a name, I think—­I do hope it!”

“Well, so Pericles says.  He’s got a great notion of you.  Perhaps he means it himself.  He’s rich.  Rash, I admit.  But, as the chances go, he’s tremendously rich.  He may mean it.”

“What?” asked Emilia.

“Marry you, you know.”

“Ah, what a torture!”

In that heat of her feelings she realized the horror of the words to her, with an intensity that made them seem to quiver like an arrow in her breast.

“You don’t like him?” said Mr. Pole.

“Not love him! not love him!”

“Yes, yes, but that comes after marriage.  Often the case.  Look here:  don’t you go against your interests.  You mustn’t be flighty.  If Pericles speaks to you, have him.  Clap your hands.  Dozens of girls would, that I know.”

“But, oh!” interposed Emilia; “if he married me he would kiss me!”

Mr. Pole coughed and blinked.  “Well!” he remarked, as one gravely cogitating; and with the native delicacy of a Briton turned it off in a playful, “So shall I now,” adding, “though I ain’t your husband.”

He stooped his head.  Emilia put her hands on his shoulders, and submitted her face to him.