“It is to commence,” cried Mr. Pericles.  “Hein! now sing.”

Emilia laid her hand under her throat.  “Not now!  Oh, not now!  When you have told me what those Austrians did to you.  I want to hear; I am very anxious to hear.  And what they said of my father.  How could he have come to Milan without a passport?  He had only a passport to Paris.”

“And at Paris I leave instructions for ze procuration of a passport over Lombardy.  Am I not Antonio Pericles Agriolopoulos?  Sing, I say!”

“Ah, but what voices you must have heard in Italy,” said Emilia softly.  “I am afraid to sing after them.  Si:  I dare not.”

She panted, little in keeping with the cajolery of her tones, but she had got Mr. Pericles upon a theme serious to his mind.

“Not a voice! not one!” he cried, stamping his foot.  “All is French.  I go twice wizin six monz, and if I go to a goose-yard I hear better.  Oh, yes! it is tune—­“ta-ta-ta—­ti-ti-ti—­to!” and of ze heart—­where is zat?  Mon Dieu!  I despair.  I see music go dead.  Let me hear you, Sandra.”

His enthusiasm had always affected Emilia, and painfully since her love had given her a consciousness of infidelity to her Art, but now the pathetic appeal to her took away her strength, and tears rose in her eyes at the thought of his faith in her.  His repetition of her name—­the ‘Sandra’ being uttered with unwonted softness—­plunged her into a fit of weeping.

“Ah!” Mr. Pericles shouted.  “See what she has come to!” and he walked two or three paces off to turn upon her spitefully. “she will be vapeurs, nerfs, I know not! when it wants a physique of a saint!  Sandra Belloni,” he added, gravely, “lift up ze head!  Sing, ’Sempre al tuo santo nome.’”

Emilia checked her tears.  His hand being raised to beat time, she could not withstand the signal.  “Sempre;”—­there came two struggling notes, to which another clung, shuddering like two creatures on the deeps.

She stopped; herself oddly calling out “Stop.”

“Stop who, donc?” Mr. Pericles postured an indignant interrogation.

“I mean, I must stop,” Emilia faltered.  “It’s the fog.  I cannot sing in this fog.  It chokes me.”

Apparently Mr. Pericles was about to say something frightfully savage, which was restrained by the presence of Sir Purcell.  He went to the door in answer to a knock, while Emilia drew breath as calmly as she might; her head moving a little backward with her breathing, in a sad mechanical way painful to witness.  Sir Purcell stretched his hand out to her, but she did not take it.  She was listening to voices at the door.  Was it really Mr. Pole who was there?  Quite unaware of the effect the sight of her would produce on him, Emilia rose and walked to the doorway.  She heard Mr. Pole abusing Mr. Pericles half banteringly for his absence while business was urgent, saying that they must lay their heads together and consult, otherwise—­a significant indication appeared to close the sentence.