She had to assure him that everything was right at home, and was next called upon to state what had brought her to town; but his continued exclamation of "Bless my soul!" reprieved her reply, and she sat in a chair panting quickly.
Mr.Pole spoke tenderly of refreshments; wine and cake, or biscuits.
"I cannot eat or drink," said Emilia.
"Why, what's come to you, my dear ?" returned Mr.Pole in unaffected wonder.
"I am not hungry." "You generally are, at home, about this time--eh ?" Emilia sighed, and feigned the sad note to be a breath of fatigue.
"Well, and why are you here, my dear ?" Mr.Pole was beginning to step to the right and the left of her uneasily.
"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.