“Many sanks,” repeated Mr. Pericles, after which the three continued silent for a time.

At last Emilia said, bluntly, “I have come to ask you to take me to Italy.”

Mr. Pericles made no sign, but Sir Purcell leaned forward to her with a gaze of astonishment, almost of horror.

“Will you take me?” persisted Emilia.

Still the sullen Greek refused either to look at her or to answer.

“Because I am ready to go,” she went on.  “I want to go at once; to-day, if you like.  I am getting too old to waste an hour.”

Mr. Pericles uncrossed his legs, ejaculating, “What a fog!  Ah!” and that was all.  He rose, and went to a cupboard.

Sir Purcell murmured hurriedly in Emilia’s ear, “Have you considered what you’ve been saying?”

“Yes, yes.  It is only a journey,” Emilia replied, in a like tone.

“A journey!”

“My father wishes it.”

“Your mother?”

“Hush!  I intend to make him take the Madre with me.”

She designated Mr. Pericles, who had poured into a small liqueur glass some green Chartreuse, smelling strong of pines.  His visitors declined to eject the London fog by this aid of the mountain monks, and Mr. Pericles warmed himself alone.

“You are wiz old Belloni,” he called out.

“I am not staying with my father,” said Emilia.

“Where?” Mr. Pericles shed a baleful glance on Sir Purcell.

“I am staying with Signor Marini.”

“Servente!” Mr. Pericles ducked his head quite low, while his hand swept the floor with an imaginary cap.  Malice had lighted up his features, and finding, after the first burst of sarcasm, that it was vain to indulge it toward an absent person, he altered his style.  “Look,” he cried to Emilia, “it is Marini stops you and old Belloni—­a conspirator, aha!  Is it for an artist to conspire, and be carbonaro, and kiss books, and, mon Dieu! bon! it is Marini plays me zis trick.  I mark him.  I mark him, I say!  He is paid by young Pole.  I hold zat family in my hand, I say!  So I go to be met by you, and on I go to Italy.  I get a letter at Milano,—­’Marini stop me at Dover,’ signed ‘Giuseppe Belloni.’  Ze letter have been spied into by ze Austrians.  I am watched—­I am dogged—­I am imprisoned—­I am examined.  ‘You know zis Giuseppe Belloni?’ ’Meine Herrn! he was to come.  I leave word at Paris for him, at Geneve, at Stresa, to bring his daughter to ze Conservatoire, for which I pay.  She has a voice—­or she had.’”

“Has!” exclaimed Emilia.

“Had!” Mr. Pericles repeated.

“She has!”

“Zen sing!” with which thunder of command, Mr. Pericles gave up his vindictive narration of the points of his injuries sustained, and, pitching into a chair, pressed his fingers to his temples, frowning attention.  His eyes were on the floor.  Presently he glanced up, and saw Emilia’s chest rising quickly.  No voice issued.