Emilia stole up to him, and dropped on one knee:  “You love them?”

“I do.  I love my girls and my boy.  And my brandy-and-water, do you mean to say, you rogue?”

“And me?” Emilia looked up at him beseechingly.

“Yes, and you.  I do.  I haven’t known you long, my dear, but I shall be glad to do what I can for you.  You shall make my house your home as long as you live; and if I say, make haste and get married, it’s only just this:  girls ought to marry young, and not be in an uncertain position.”

“Am I worth having?”

“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.”