on
herself with a foreign eye. This is a dreadful but instructive piece
of contemplation; acting as if the rich warm blood of self should
have ceased to hug about us, and we stand forth to be dissected
unresistingly. All Emilia's vital strength now seemed to vanish. At the
renewal of Mr. Pericles' peremptory mandate for her to sing, she could
neither appeal to him, nor resist; but, raising her chest, she made
her best effort, and then covered her face. This was done less for
concealment of her shame-stricken features than to avoid sight of the
stupefaction imprinted upon Mr. Pericles.

"Again, zat A flat!" he called sternly.

She tried it.

"Again!"

Again she did her utmost to accomplish the task. If you have seen a girl
in a fit of sobs elevate her head, with hard-shut eyelids, while her
nostrils convulsively take in a long breath, as if for speech, but it
is expended in one quick vacant sigh, you know how Emilia looked. And it
requires a humane nature to pardon such an aspect in a person from whom
we have expected triumphing glances and strong thrilling tones.

"What is zis?" Mr. Pericles came nearer to her.

He would listen to no charges against the atmosphere. Commanding her to
give one simple run of notes, a contralto octave, he stood over her with
keenly watchful eyes. Sir Purcell bade him observe her distress.

"I am much obliged," Mr. Pericles bowed, "she is ruined. I have
suspected. Ha! But I ask for a note! One!"

This imperious signal drew her to another attempt. The deplorable sound
that came sent Emilia sinking down with a groan.

"Basta, basta! So, it is zis tale," said Mr. Pericles, after an
observation of her huddled shape. "Did I not say--"

His voice was so menacingly loud and harsh that Sir Purcell remarked:
"This is not the time to repeat it--pardon me--whatever you said."

"Ze fool--she play ze fool! Sir, I forget ze Christian--ah! Purcell!--I
say she play ze fool, and look at her! Why is it she comes to me now? A
dozen times I warn her. To Italy! to Italy! all is ready: you will have
a place at ze Conservatorio. No: she refuse. I say 'Go, and you are a
queen. You are a Prima at twenty, and Europe is beneas you.' No: she
refuse, and she is ruined. 'What,' I say, 'what zat dam silly smile
mean?' Oh, no! I am not lazy!' 'But you area fool!' 'Oh, no!' 'And what
are you, zen? And what shall you do?' Nussing! nussing! nussing! And,
dam! zere is an end."

Emilia had caught blindly at Sir P