Sandra Belloni — Volume 4

This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
It was midnight. Mr. Pole had appeased his imagination with a chop, and was trying to revive the memory of his old after-theatre night carouses by listening to a song which Emilia sang to him, while he sipped at a smoking mixture, and beat time on the table, rejoiced that he was warm from head to foot at last.
That's a pretty song, my dear, he said. A very pretty song. It does for an old fellow; and so did my supper: light and wholesome. I'm an old fellow; I ought to know I've got a grown-up son and grown-up daughters. I shall be a grandpa, soon, I dare say. It's not the thing for me to go about hearing glees. I had an idea of it. I'm better here. All I want is to see my children happy, married and settled, and comfortable!
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?