cond story. The points seemed irreconcilable
to those who were not in the habit of taking human nature into their
calculations of a possible course of conduct; even Wilfrid, though he
was aware that Barto Rizzo hated Vittoria inveterately, imagined Sarpo's
first lie to have necessarily fathered a second. But the second story
was true: and the something like lover's wrath with which the outrage
to Vittoria fired Pericles, prompted him to act on it as truth. He
told Wilfrid that he should summon 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 gi