t-air, under a yellowing crescent, listening to the
voice of an imperial woman. Impressed as he was, Braintop had,
nevertheless, leisure to look out of his vinous mist and notice, with
some misgiving, a parading light at a certain distance--apparently the
light of cigarettes being freshly kindled. He was too much elated to feel
alarm: but "If her father were to catch me again," he thought. And with
Emilia on his arm!

Mr. Pole's chief-clerk had brought discomposing news. He was received by
an outburst of "No business, Payne; I won't have business!"

Turning to Mr. Pericles, the old clerk said: "I came rather for you, sir,
not expecting to find Mr. Pole." He was told by Mr. Pericles to speak
what he had to say: and then the guests, who had fallen slightly back,
heard a cavernous murmur; and some, whose eyes where on Mr. Pole,
observed a sharp conflict of white and red in his face.

"There, there, there, there!" went Mr. Pole. "'Hem, Pericles!" His
handkerchief was drawn out; and he became engaged, as it were, in wiping
a moisture from the palm of his hand. "Pericles, have you got pluck now?
Eh?"

Mr. Pericles had leaned down his ear for the whole of the news.

"Ten sossand," he said, smoothing his waistbands, and then inserting his
thumbs into the pits of his waistcoat. "Also a chance of forty. Let us
not lose time for ze music."

He walked away.

"I don't believe in that d---d coolness, ma'am," said Mr. Pole, wheeling
round on Freshfield Sumner. "It's put on. That wears a mask; he's one of
those confounded humbugs who wear a mask. Ten-forty! and all for a shrug;
it's not human. I tell you, he does that just out of a sort of jealousy
to rival me as an Englishman. Because I'm cool, he must be. Do you think
a mother doesn't feel the loss of her children?"

"I fear that I must grow petticoats before I can answer purely feminine
questions," said Freshfield.

"Of course--of course," assented Mr. Pole; "and a man feels like a mother
to his money. For the moment, he does--for the moment. What are those
fellows--Spartans--women who cut off their breasts--?"

Freshfield suggested, "Amazons."

"No; they were women," Mr. Pole corrected him; "and if anything hurt
them, they never cried out. That's what--ha!--our friend Pericles is
trying at. He's a fool. He won't sleep to-night. He'll lie till he gets
cold in the feet, and then tuck them up like a Dutch doll, and perspire
cold till his heart gives a bound, and he'll jum