The Greek had done nothing but grin obnoxiously to every word spoken on the way, drawing his hand down across his jaw, to efface the hard pale wrinkles, and eyeing Emilia's cavalier with his shrewdest suspicious look.
“You will excuse,”—he pointed to the confusion of the room they were in, and the heap of unopened letters,—“I am from ze Continent; I do not expect ze pleasure. A seat?”
Mr. Pericles handed chairs to his visitors.
“It is a climate, is it not,” he resumed.
Emilia said a word, and he snapped at her, immediately adding, “Hein? Ah! so!” with a charming urbanity.
“How lucky that we should meet you,” exclaimed Emilia. “We were just coming to you—to find out, I mean, where you were, and call on you.”
“Ough! do not tell me lies,” said Mr. Pericles, clasping the hollow of his cheeks between thumb and forefinger.
“Allow me to assure you that what Miss Belloni has said is perfectly correct,” Sir Purcell remarked.
Mr. Pericles gave a short bow. “It is ze same; I am much obliged.”
“And you have just come from Italy?” said Emilia.