A murmur of plaudits, the low thunder of gathering acclamation, went round. Lady Gosstre looked a satisfied, "This will do." Wilfrid saw Emilia's eyes appeal hopefully to Mr. Pericles. The connoisseur shrugged. A pain lodged visibly on her black eyebrows. She gripped her harp, and her eyelids appeared to quiver as she took the notes. Again, and still singing, she turned her head to him. The eyes of Mr. Pericles were white, as if upraised to intercede for her with the Powers of Harmony. Her voice grew unnerved. On a sudden she excited herself to pitch and give volume to that note which had been the enchantment of the night in the woods. It quavered. One might have thought her caught by the throat. Emilia gazed at no one now. She rose, without a word or an apology, keeping her eyes down. "Fiasco!" cruelly cried Mr. Pericles. That was better to her than the silly kindness of the people who deemed it well to encourage her with applause. Emilia could not bear the clapping of hands, and fled. CHAPTER V The night was warm under a slowly-floating moon. Full of compassion for the poor girl, who had moved him if she had failed in winning the assembly, Wilfrid stepped into the garden, where he expected to find her, and to be the first to pet and console her. Threading the scented shrubs, he came upon a turn in one of the alleys, from which point he had a view of her figure, as she stood near a Portugal laurel on the lawn. Mr. Pericles was by her side. Wilfrid's intention was to join them. A loud sob from Emilia checked his foot. "You are cruel," he heard her say. "If it is good, I tell it you; if it is bad; abominable, I tell it you, juste ze same," responded Mr. Pericles. "The others did not think it very bad." "Ah! bah!" Mr. Pericles cut her short. Had they been talking of matters secret and too sweet, Wilfrid would have retired, like a man of honour. As it was, he continued to listen. The tears of his poor little friend, moreover, seemed to hold him there in the hope that he might afford some help. "Yes; I do not care for the others," she resumed. "You praised me the night I first saw you." "It is perhaps zat you can sing to z' moon," returned Mr. Pericles. "But, what! a singer, she must sing in a house. To-night it is warm, to-morrow it is cold. If you sing through a cold, what noise do we hear? It is a nose, not a voice. It is a trompet." Emilia, with a whimpering firmness, replied: "You said I am lazy. I am not." "Not lazy," Mr. Pericles assented. "Do I care for praise from people who do not understand music? It is not true. I only like to please them." "Be a street-organ," Mr. Pericles retorted. "I must like to see them pleased when I sing," said Emilia desperately.