Otherwise, what had robbed her of her voice?  She played with her fancy for comfort, long after any real vitality in it had oozed out.  Her having strength to play at fancies showed that a spark of hope was alive.  In truth, firm of flesh as she was, to believe that all worth had departed from her was impossible, and when she reposed simply on her sensations, very little trouble beset her:  only when she looked abroad did the aspect of numerous indifferent faces, and the harsh flowing of the world its own way, tell her she had lost her power.  Could it be lost?  The prospect of her desolation grew so wide to her that she shut her eyes, abandoning herself to feeling; and this by degrees moved her to turn back and throw herself at the feet of Mr. Pericles.  For, if he said, “Wait, my child, and all will come round well,” she was prepared blindly to think so.  The projection of the words in her mind made her ready to weep:  but as she neared the house of his office the wish to hear him speak that, became passionate; she counted all that depended on it, and discovered the size of the fabric she had built on so thin a plank.  After a while, her steps were mechanically swift.  Before she reached the chambers of Mr. Pericles she had walked, she knew not why, once round the little quiet enclosed city-garden, and a cold memory of those men who had looked at her face gave her some wonder, to be quickly kindled into fuller comprehension.

Beholding Emilia once more, Mr. Pericles enjoyed a revival of his taste for vengeance; but, unhappily for her, he found it languid, and when he had rubbed his hands, stared, and by sundry sharp utterances brought her to his feet, his satisfaction was less poignant than he had expected.  As a consequence, instead of speaking outrageously, according to his habit, in wrath, he was now frigidly considerate, informing Emilia that it would be good for her if she were dead, seeing that she was of no use whatever; but, as she was alive, she had better go to her father and mother, and learn knitting, or some such industrial employment.  “Unless zat man for whom you play fool!—­” Mr. Pericles shrugged the rest of his meaning.

“But my voice may not be gone,” urged Emilia.  “I may sing to you to-morrow—­this evening.  It must be the fog.  Why do you think it lost?  It can’t be—­”

“Cracked!” cried Mr. Pericles.

“It is not!  No; do not think it.  I may stay here.  Don’t tell me to go yet.  The streets make me wish to die.  And I feel I may, perhaps, sing presently.  Wait.  Will you wait?”

A hideous imitation of her lamentable tones burst from Mr. Pericles.  “Cracked!” he cried again.

Emilia lifted her eyes, and looked at him steadily.  She saw the idea grow in the eyes fronting her that she had a pleasant face, and she at once staked this little bit of newly-conceived worth on an immediate chance.  Remember; that she was as near despair as a creature constituted so healthily could go.  Speaking no longer in a girlish style, but with the grave pleading manner of a woman, she begged Mr. Pericles to take her to Italy, and have faith in the recovery of her voice.  He, however, far from being softened, as he grew aware of her sweetness of feature, waxed violent and insulting.