y were equals.

It was an odd story that he told of himself. She could not have repeated
it to make it comprehensible. She drank at every sentence, getting no
more from it than the gratification of her thirst. His father, at least,
was a man of title, a baronet. What was meant by estates not entailed?
What wild freak of fate put this noble young man in the power of an
eccentric parent, who now caressed him, now made him an outcast? She
heard of the sum that was his, coming from his dead mother to support
him just one hundred pounds annual! Was ever fate so mournful?

Practically, she understood that if Mr. Barrett would write to his
father, pledging himself to conform to his mysterious despotic will in
something, he would be pardoned and reinstated.

He concluded: "Hitherto I have preferred poverty. You have taught me at
what a cost! Is it too late?"

The fall of his voice, with the repetition of her name, seemed as if
awakening her, but not in a land of reason.

"Why...why!" she whispered.

"Beloved?"

"Why did you not tell me this before?"

"Do you upbraid me?"

"Oh, no! Oh, never!" she felt his hand taking hers gently. "My friend,"
she said, half in self-defence; and they, who had never kissed as
lovers, kissed under the plea of friendship.

CHAPTER XXIII

All Wilfrid's diplomacy was now brought into play to baffle Mr.
Pericles, inspire Emilia with the spirit of secresy, and carry on his
engagement to two women to their common satisfaction. Adela, whose
penetration he dreaded most, he had removed by a flattering invitation
to Stornley; and that Emilia might be occupied during his absences, and
Mr. Pericles thrown on a false scent, he persuaded Tracy Runningbrook
to come to Brookfield, and write libretti for Emilia's operas. The two
would sit down together for an hour, drawing wonderful precocious
noses upon juvenile visages, when Emilia would sigh and say: "I can't
work!"--Tracy adding, with resignation: "I never can!" At first Mr.
Pericles dogged them assiduously. After a little while he shrugged,
remarking: "It is a nonsense."

They were, however, perfectly serious about the production of an opera,
Tracy furnishing verse to Emilia's music. He wrote with extraordinary
rapidity, but clung to graphic phrases, that were not always supple
enough for nuptials with modulated notes. Then Emilia had to hit his
sense of humour by giving the words as they came in the run of the song.
"You make me crow, o