Barto Rizzo to his presence.  As the Government was unable to exhibit so much power, Wilfrid looked sarcastic; whereupon Pericles threw up his chin crying:  “Oh! you shall know my resources.  Now, my friend, one bit of paper, and a messenger, and zen home to my house, to Tokay and cigarettes, and wait to see.”  He remarked after pencilling a few lines, “Countess d’Isorella is her enemy? hein!”

“Why, you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you,” said Wilfrid.

“No,” Pericles replied while writing and humming over his pencil; “my ear is a pelican-pouch, my friend; it—­and Irma is her enemy also?—­it takes and keeps, but does not swallow till it wants.  I shall hear you, and I shall hear my Sandra Vittoria, and I shall not know you have spoken, when by-and-by I tinkle, tinkle, a bell of my brain, and your word walks in,—­ ’quite well?’—­’very well! ’—­sit down’—­’if it is ze same to you, I prefer to stand’—­’good; zen I examine you.’  My motto:—­’Time opens ze gates:  my system:  ’it is your doctor of regiment’s system when your twelve, fifteen, forty recruits strip to him:—­’Ah! you, my man, have varicose vein:  no soldier in our regiment, you!’ So on.  Perhaps I am not intelligible; but, hear zis.  I speak not often of my money; but I say—­it is in your ear—­a man of millions, he is a king!” The Greek jumped up and folded a couple of notes.  “I will not have her disturbed.  Let her sing now and awhile to Pericles and his public:  and to ze Londoners, wiz your permission, Count Ammiani, one saison.  I ask no more, and I am satisfied, and I endow your oldest child, signor Conte—­it is said!  For its mama was a good girl, a brave girl; she troubled Pericles, because he is an intellect; but he forgives when he sees sincerity—­rare zing!  Sincerity and genius:  it may be zey are as man and wife in a bosom.  He forgives; it is not onnly voice he craves, but a soul, and Sandra, your countess, she has a soul—­I am not a Turk.  I say, it is a woman in whom a girl I did see a soul!  A woman when she is married, she is part of ze man; but a soul, it is for ever alone, apart, confounded wiz nobody!  For it I followed Sandra, your countess.  It was a sublime devotion of a dog.  Her voice tsrilled, her soul possessed me, Your countess is my Sandra still.  I shall be pleased if child-bearing trouble her not more zan a very little; but, enfin! she is married, and you and I, my friend Wilfrid, we must accept ze decree, and say, no harm to her out of ze way of nature, by Saint Nicolas! or any what saint you choose for your invocation.  Come along.  And speed my letters by one of your militaires at once off.  Are Pericles’ millions gold of bad mint?  If so, he is an incapable.  He presumes it is not so.  Come along; we will drink to her in essence of Tokay.  You shall witness two scenes.  Away!”