“Shall I sing anything to you?” Emilia addressed Mr. Pericles.  The latter shrugged to express indifference.  Nevertheless she sang.  She had never sung better.  Mr. Pericles clutched his chin in one hand, elbow on knee.  The ladies sighed to think of the loss of homage occasioned by the fact of so few being present to hear her.  Wilfrid knew himself the fountain of it all, and stood fountain-like, in a shower of secret adulation:  a really happy fellow.  This:  that his beloved should be the centre of eyes, and pronounced exquisite by general approbation, besides subjecting him to a personal spell:  this was what he wanted.  It was mournful to think that Circumstance had not at the same time created the girl of noble birth, or with an instinct for spiritual elegance.  But the world is imperfect.

Presently he became aware that she was understood to be singing pointedly to him:  upon which he dismissed the council of his sensations, and began to diplomatize cleverly.  Leaning over to Adela, he whispered: 

“Pericles wants her to go to Italy.  My belief is, that she won’t.”

“And why?” returned Adela, archly reproachful.

“Well, we’ve been spoiling her a little, perhaps.  I mean, we men, of course.  But, I really don’t think that I’m chiefly to blame.  You won’t allow Captain Gambier to be in fault, I know.”

“Why not?” said Adela.

“Well, if you will, then he is the principal offender.”

Adela acted disbelief; but, unprepared for her brother’s perfectly feminine audacity of dissimulation, she thought:  “He can’t be in earnest about the girl,” and was led to fancy that Gambier might, and to determine to see whether it was so.

By this manoeuvre, Wilfrid prepared for himself a defender when the charge was brought against him.

Mr. Pericles was thunderstruck on hearing Emilia refuse to go to Italy.  A scene of tragic denunciation on the one hand, and stubborn decision on the other, ensued.

“I shall not mind zis” (he spoke of Love and the awakening of the female heart) “not when you are trained.  It is good, zen, and you have fire from it.  But, now! little fool, I say, it is too airly—­too airly!  How shall you learn—­eh? with your brain upon a man?  And your voice, little fool, a thing of caprice, zat comes and goes as he will, not you will.  Hein? like a barrel-organ, which he turns ze handle.—­Mon Dieu!  Why did I leave her?” Mr. Pericles struck his brow with his wrist, clutching at the long thin slice of hair that did greasy duty for the departed crop on his poll.  “Did I not know it was a woman?  And so you are, what you say, in lofe.”

Emilia replied:  “I have not said so,” with exasperating coolness.