“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.”
“Can you, can you be angry with him for loving me?”
“Deceiving you,” returned Mr. Pole; “that's what it is. And I tell you, I'd rather fifty times the fellow had deceived me. Anything rather than that he should take advantage of a girl.”
“Wilfrid loves me and would die for me,” said Emilia.