“I have come—” she paused, with a curious quick speculating look between her eyes; “I have come to see you.”
“See me, my dear? You saw me this morning.”
“Yes; I wanted to see you alone.”
Emilia was having the first conflict with her simplicity; out of which it was not to issue clear, as in the foregone days. She was thinking of the character of the man she spoke to, studying him, that she might win him to succour the object she had in view. It was a quality going, and a quality coming; nor will we, if you please, lament a law of growth.
“Why, you can see me alone, any day, my dear,” said Mr. Pole; “for many a day, I hope.”
“You are more alone to me here. I cannot speak at Brookfield. Oh!”—and Emilia had to still her heart's throbbing—“you do not want me to go to Italy, do you?”
“Want you to go? Not a bit. There is some talk of it, isn't there? I don't want you to go. Don't you want to go.”
“No! no!” said Emilia, with decisive fervour.
“Don't want to go?”
“No: to stay! I want to stay!”