“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.
“There!” went Mr. Pole: “'pon my honour, it does me good:—better than medicine! But you mustn't give that dose to everybody, my dear. You don't, of course. All right, all right—I'm quite satisfied. I was only thinking of you going to Italy, among those foreign rascals, who've no more respect for a girl than they have for a monkey—their brother. A set of swindlers! I took you for the wife of one when you came in, at first. And now, business is business. Let's get it over. What have you come about? Glad to see you—understand that.”
Emilia lifted her eyes to his.