"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!"