“Emilia is (am I chronicling a princess?)—­she is in London with Signor Marini; and Wilfrid has not seen her.  Lady Charlotte managed to get the first boat full, and pushed off as he was about to descend.  I pitied his poor trembling hand I went on shore in the second boat with him.  We did not find the others for an hour, when we heard that Emilia had gone with Signor M. The next day, whom should we sea but Mr. Pericles.  He (I have never seen him so civil)—­he shook Wilfrid by the hand almost like an Englishman; and Wilfrid too, though he detests him, was civil to him, and even laughed when he said:  ’Here it is dull; ze Continent for a week.  I follow Philomela—­ze nightingales.’  I was just going to say, ’Well then, you are running away from one.’  Wilfrid pressed my fingers, and taught me to be still; and I did not know why till I reflected.  Poor Mr. Pericles, seeing him friendly for the first time, rubbed his hands and it was most painful to me to see him shake hands with Wilfrid again and again, till he was on board the vessel chuckling.  Wilfrid suddenly laughed with all his might—­a cruel laugh; and Mr. Pericles tried to be as loud, but commenced coughing and tapping his chest, to explain that his intention was good.  Bella! the passion of love must be judged by the person who inspires it; and I cannot even go so far as to feel pity for Wilfrid if he has stooped to the humiliation of—­there is another way of regarding it, know.  Let him be sincere and noble; but not his own victim.  He scarcely holds up his head.  We are now for Devon.  Tracy is with us; and we never did a wiser thing than when we decided to patronize poets.  If kept in order—­under—­they are the aristocracy of light conversationalists.  Adieu!  We speed for beautiful Devon.  ’Me love to Pole, and I’m just,’ etc.  That will do this time; next, she will speak herself.  That I should wish it!  But the world is full of change, as I begin to learn.  What will ensue?”

CHAPTER XXXV

When Mrs. Chump had turned her back on Brookfield, the feelings of the outcast woman were too deep for much distinctly acrimonious sensation toward the ladies; but their letters soon lifted and revived her, until, being in a proper condition of prickly wrath, she sat down to compose a reply that should bury them under a mountain of shame.  The point, however, was to transfer this mountain from her bosom, which laboured heavily beneath it, to their heads.  Nothing could appear simpler.  Here is the mountain; the heads are yonder.  Accordingly, she prepared to commence.  In a moment the difficulty yawned monstrous.  For the mountain she felt was not a mountain of shame; yet that was the character of mountain she wished to cast.  If she crushed them, her reputation as a forgiving soul might suffer:  she could not pardon without seeing them abased.  Thus shaken at starting, she found herself writing:  “I know that your father has been hearing tales told of me, or he would have written, and he has not; so you shall never see me, not if you cried to me from the next world—­the hot part.”