A piteous desperate outburst marked the last words, that seemed to struggle from a tightened cord.

“Not that there’s anything the matter,” he resumed, with a very brisk wink.  “I’m quite sound:  heart’s sound, lungs sound, stomach regular.  I can see, and smell, and hear.  Sense of touch is rather lumpy at times, I know; but the doctor says it’s nothing—­nothing at all; and I should be all right, if I didn’t feel that I was always wearing a great leaden hat.”

“My gracious, Pole, if ye’re not talkin’ pos’tuv nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Chump.

“Well, my dear Martha” (Mr. Pole turned to her argumentatively), “how do you account for my legs?  I feel it at top.  I declare I’ve felt the edge of the brim half a yard out.  Now, my lady, a man in that state—­sound and strong as the youngest—­but I mean a vexed man—­worried man bothered man, he doesn’t want a woman to look after him;—­I mean, he does—­he does!  And why won’t young girls—­oh! they might, they might—­see that?  And when she’s no extra expense, but brings him—­helps him to face—­and no one has said the world’s a jolly world so often as I have.  It’s jolly!” He groaned.

Lady Charlotte saw Wilfrid gazing at one spot on the table without a change of countenance.  She murmured to him, “What hits you hits me.”

Mr. Pole had recommenced, on the evident instigation of Laura Tinley, though Lady Gosstre and Freshfield Sumner had both sought to check the current.  In Chump’s lifetime, it appeared, he (Mr. Pole) had thought of Mrs. Chump with a respectful ardour; and albeit she was no longer what she was when Chump brought her over, a blooming Irish girl—­“her hair exactly as now, the black curl half over the cheek, and a bright laugh, and a white neck, fat round arms, and—­”

A shout of “Oh, Pole! ye seem to be undressin’ of me before them all,” diverted the neighbours of the Beauty.

“Who would not like such praise?” Laura Tinley, to keep alive the subject, laid herself open to Freshfield by a remark.

“At the same personal peril?” he inquired smoothly.

Mr. Pericles stood up, crying “Enfin!” as the doors were flung open, and a great Signora of operatic fame entered the hall, supported on one side by a charming gentleman (a tenore), who shared her fame and more with her.  In the rear were two working baritones; and behind them, outside, Italian heads might be discerned.

The names of the Queen of Song and Prince of Singers flew round the room; and Laura uttered words of real gratitude, for the delightful surprise, to Arabella, as the latter turned from her welcome of them.  “She is exactly like Emilia—­young,” was uttered.  The thought went with a pang through Wilfrid’s breast.  When the Signora was asked if she would sup or take champagne, and she replied that she would sup by-and-by, and drink porter now, the likeness to Emilia was established among the Poles.