"Be a street-organ," Mr. Pericles retorted.
"I must like to see them pleased when I sing," said Emilia desperately.
"And you like ze clap of ze hands. Yez. It is quite natural. Yess. You are a good child, it is clear. But, look. You are a voice uncultivated, sauvage. You go wrong: I hear you: and dese claps of zese noodels send you into squeaks and shrills, and false! false away you go. It is a gallop ze wrong way."
Here Mr. Pericles attempted the most horrible reproduction of Emilia's failure. She cried out as if she had been bitten.
"What am I to do?" she asked sadly.
"Not now," Mr. Pericles answered. "You live in London?—at where?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Certainly, you must tell me."
"But, I am not going there; I mean, not yet."
"You are going to sing to z' moon through z' nose. Yez. For how long?"