“Love the poor devil—­manage the rich, you mean.”

“Yes, of course; that makes them both happy.”

“It’s a method of being charitable to two.”

A rather fleshy fairy now entered, and walked straight up to the looking-glass to examine her paint—­pronouncedly turning her back to the sofa, where Mr. Pericles still lay at provoking full length.  Her panting was ominous of a further explosion.

“Innocent child!” in the mockery of a foreign accent, commenced it; while Wilfrid thought how unjustly and coldly critically he had accused his little Emilia of vulgarity, now that he had this feminine display of it swarming about him.

“Innocent child, indeed!  Be as deaf as you like, you shall hear.  And sofas are not made for men’s dirty boots, in this country.  I believe they’re all pigs abroad—­the men; and the women—­cats!  Oh! don’t open your eyes—­don’t speak, pray.  You’re certain I must go when the bell rings.  You’re waiting for that, you unmanly dog!”

“A pig,” Mr. Pericles here ventured to remind her, murmuring as one in a dream.

“A peeg!” she retorted mildly, somewhat mollified by her apparent success.  But Mr. Pericles had relapsed into his exasperating composure.  The breath of a deliberate and undeserved peacefulness continued to be drawn in by his nostrils.

At the accustomed warning there was an ostentatious rustle of retiring dresses; whereat Mr. Pericles chose to proclaim himself awake.  The astute fairy-fury immediately stepped before him.

“Now you can’t go on pretending sleep.  You shall hear, and everybody shall hear.  You know you’re a villain!  You’re a wolf seeking...”

Mr. Pericles waved his hand, and she was caught by the wrist and told that the scene awaited her.

“Let them wait!” she shouted, and, sharpening her cry as she was dragged off, “Dare to take that girl to Italy!  I know what that means, with you.  An Englishman might mean right—­but you!  You think you’ve been dealing with a fool!  Why, I can stop this in a minute, and I will.  It’s you’re the fool!  Why, I know her father:  he plays in the orchestra.  I know her name—­Belloni!”

Up sprang the Greek like a galvanized corpse; while two violent jerks from the man hauling her out rattled the laugh of triumph which burst from her.  At the same time Wilfrid strove forward, with the frown of one still bent listening, and he and Pericles were face to face.  The eyebrows of the latter shot up in a lively arch.  He made a motion toward the ceremony of ‘shake-hands;’ but, perceiving no correspondent overture, grinned, “It is warm—­ha?”

“You feel the heat?  Step outside a minute,” said Wilfrid.

“Oh, no!” Mr. Pericles looked pleasantly sagacious.  Ze draught—­a cold.”

“Will you come?” pursued Wilfrid.

“Many sanks!”