Mr. Pole's chief-clerk had brought discomposing news. He was received by an outburst of "No business, Payne; I won't have business!" Turning to Mr. Pericles, the old clerk said: "I came rather for you, sir, not expecting to find Mr. Pole." He was told by Mr. Pericles to speak what he had to say: and then the guests, who had fallen slightly back, heard a cavernous murmur; and some, whose eyes where on Mr. Pole, observed a sharp conflict of white and red in his face. "There, there, there, there!" went Mr. Pole. "'Hem, Pericles!" His handkerchief was drawn out; and he became engaged, as it were, in wiping a moisture from the palm of his hand. "Pericles, have you got pluck now? Eh?" Mr. Pericles had leaned down his ear for the whole of the news. "Ten sossand," he said, smoothing his waistbands, and then inserting his thumbs into the pits of his waistcoat. "Also a chance of forty. Let us not lose time for ze music." He walked away. "I don't believe in that d---d coolness, ma'am," said Mr. Pole, wheeling round on Freshfield Sumner. "It's put on. That wears a mask; he's one of those confounded humbugs who wear a mask. Ten-forty! and all for a shrug; it's not human. I tell you, he does that just out of a sort of jealousy to rival me as an Englishman. Because I'm cool, he must be. Do you think a mother doesn't feel the loss of her children?" "I fear that I must grow petticoats before I can answer purely feminine questions," said Freshfield. "Of course--of course," assented Mr. Pole; "and a man feels like a mother to his money. For the moment, he does--for the moment. What are those fellows--Spartans--women who cut off their breasts--?" Freshfield suggested, "Amazons." "No; they were women," Mr. Pole corrected him; "and if anything hurt them, they never cried out. That's what--ha!--our friend Pericles is trying at. He's a fool. He won't sleep to-night. He'll lie till he gets cold in the feet, and then tuck them up like a Dutch doll, and perspire cold till his heart gives a bound, and he'll jump up and think his last hour's come. Wind on the stomach, do ye call it? I say it's wearing a mask!" The bird's-eye of the little merchant shot decisive meaning. Two young ladies had run from his neighbourhood, making as if to lift hands to ears. The sight of them brought Mrs. Chump to his side. "Pole! Pole!" she said, "is there annything wrong?" "Wrong, Martha?" He bent to her, attempting Irish--"Arrah, now! and mustn't all be right if you're here?" She smote his cheek fondly. "Ye're not a bit of an Irish-man, ye deer little fella." "Come along and dance," cried he imperiously. "A pretty spectacle--two fandangoes, when there's singing, ye silly!" Mrs. Chump led him upstairs, chafing one of his hands, and remarking loudly on the wonder it was to see his knees constantly 'give' as he walked. On the dark lawn, pressing Wilfrid's written words for fiery nourishment to her heart, Emilia listened to the singing.