She was sitting near one end of the booth, singing as Wilfrid had never yet heard her sing:  her dark eyes flashing.  Behind her stood Captain Gambier, keeping guard with all the composure of a gentleman-usher at a royal presentation.  Along the tables, men and women were ranged facing her; open-mouthed, some of them but for the most part wearing a predetermined expression of applausive judgement, as who should say, “Queer, but good.”  They gave Emilia their faces, which was all she wanted! and silence, save for an intermingling soft snore, here and there, the elfin trumpet of silence.  To tell truth, certain heads had bowed low to the majesty of beer, and were down on the table between sprawling doubled arms.  No essay on the power of beer could exhibit it more convincingly than, the happy indifference with which they received admonishing blows from quart-pots, salutes from hot pipe-bowls, pricks from pipe-ends, on nose, and cheek, and pate; as if to vindicate for their beloved beverage a right to rank with that old classic drink wherewith the fairest of women vanquished human ills.  The majority, however, had been snatched out of this bliss by the intrusion of their wives, who sat beside them like Consciences in petticoats; and it must be said that Emilia was in favour with the married men, for one reason, because she gave these broad-ribboned ladies a good excuse for allowing their lords to stop where they were so comfortable, a continually-extending five minutes longer.

Yet, though the words were foreign and the style of the song and the singer were strange, many of the older fellows’ eyes twinkled, and their mouths pursed with a kind of half-protesting pleasure.  All were reverent to the compliment paid them by Emilia’s presence.  The general expression was much like that seen when the popular ear is given to the national anthem.  Wilfrid hung at the opening of the booth, a cynical spectator.  For what on earth made her throw such energy, and glory of music, into a song before fellows like these?  He laughed dolorously. “she hasn’t a particle of any sense of ridicule,” he said to himself.  Forthwith her voice took hold of him, and led him as heroes of old were led unwillingly into enchanted woods.  If she had been singing things holy, a hymn, a hallelujah, in this company, it struck him that somehow it would have seemed appropriate; not objectionable; at any rate, not ridiculous.  Dr. Watts would have put a girdle about her; but a song of romance sung in this atmosphere of pipes and beer and boozy heads, chagrined Wilfrid in proportion as the softer half of him began to succumb to the deliciousness of her voice.