Flying from port to port to effect an exchange of stewards (the endless occupation of a yacht proprietor), Wilfrid had no tidings from Brookfield. The night before the gathering on Besworth Lawn he went to London and dined at his Club--a place where youths may drink largely of the milk of this world's wisdom. Wilfrid's romantic sentiment was always corrected by an hour at his Club. After dinner he strolled to a not perfectly regulated theatre, in company with a brother officer; and when they had done duty before the scenes for a space of time, they lounged behind to disenchant themselves, in obedience to that precocious cynicism which is the young man's extra-Luxury. The first figure that caught Wilfrid's attention there was Mr. Pericles, in a white overcoat, stretched along a sofa--his eyelids being down, though his eyes were evidently vigilant beneath. A titter of ladies present told of some recent interesting commotion. “Only a row between that rich Greek fellow who gave the supper, and Marion,” a vivacious dame explained to Wilfrid. “She's in one of her jealous fits; she'd be jealous if her poodle-dog went on its hind-legs to anybody else.” “Poodle, by Jove!” said Wilfrid. “Pericles himself looks like an elongated poodle shaved up to his moustache. Look at him. And he plays the tyrant, does he?” “Oh! she stands that. Some of those absurd women like it, I think. She's fussing about another girl.” “You wouldn't?” “What man's worth it?” “But, would you?” “It depends upon the 'him,' monsieur. “Depends upon his being very handsome!” “And good.” “And rich?” “No!” the lady fired up. “There you don't know us.” The colloquy became almost tender, until she said, “Isn't this gassy, and stifling? I confess I do like a carriage, and Richmond on a Sunday. And then, with two daughters, you know! But what I complain of is her folly in being in love, or something like it, with a rich fellow.” “Love the poor devil--manage the rich, you mean.” “Yes, of course; that makes them both happy.” “It's a method of being charitable to two.” A rather fleshy fairy now entered, and walked straight up to the looking-glass to examine her paint--pronouncedly turning her back to the sofa, where Mr. Pericles still lay at provoking full length. Her panting was ominous of a further explosion. “Innocent child!” in the mockery of a foreign accent, commenced it; while Wilfrid thought how unjustly and coldly critically he had accused his little Emilia of vulgarity, now that he had this feminine display of it swarming about him. “Innocent child, indeed! Be as deaf as you like, you shall hear. And sofas are not made for men's dirty boots, in this country. I believe they're all pigs abroad--the men; and the women--cats! Oh! don't open your eyes--don't speak, pray. You're certain I must go when the bell rings. You're waiting for that, you unmanly dog!” “A pig,” Mr. Pericles here ventured to remind her, murmuring as one in a dream.