The baffled lady sighed. He sat so rigid: he spoke so securely, as if wisdom were to him more than the love of his son. And yet he did love his son. Feeling sure that he loved his son while he spoke so loftily, she reverenced him still, baffled as she was, and sensible that she had been quibbled with.
“All I ask of you is to open your heart to him,” she said.
He kept silent.
“Call him a man,—he is, and must ever be the child of your education, my friend.”
“You would console me, Emmeline, with the prospect that, if he ruins himself, he spares the world of young women. Yes, that is something!”
Closely she scanned the mask. It was impenetrable. He could meet her eyes, and respond to the pressure of her hand, and smile, and not show what he felt. Nor did he deem it hypocritical to seek to maintain his elevation in her soft soul, by simulating supreme philosophy over offended love. Nor did he know that he had an angel with him then: a blind angel, and a weak one, but one who struck upon his chance.
“Am I pardoned for coming to you?” she said, after a pause.
“Surely I can read my Emmeline’s intentions,” he gently replied.
“Very poor ones. I feel my weakness. I cannot utter half I have been thinking. Oh, if I could!”
“You speak very well, Emmeline.”