Emilia may have had some warning sense that admiration is only one ingredient of homage, that to make it fast and true affection must be won.  Now, poor people, yokels, clods, cannot love what is incomprehensible to them.  An idol must have their attributes:  a king must show his face now and then:  a song must appeal to their intelligence, to subdue them quite.  This, as we know, is not the case in the higher circles.  Emilia may have divined it:  possibly from the very great respect with which her finale was greeted.  Vigorous as the “Brayvos” were, they sounded abashed:  they lacked abandonment.  In fact, it was gratitude that applauded, and not enthusiasm.  “Hillford don’t hear stuff like that, do ’em?” which was the main verbal encomium passed, may be taken testificatorily as to this point.

“Dame! dame!” cried Emilia, finding her way quickly to one of the more decently-bonneted women; “am I not glad to see you here!  Did I please you?  And you, dear Farmer Wilson?  I caught sight of you just as I was finishing.  I remember the song you like, and I want to sing it.  I know the tune, but the words! the words! what are the words?  Humming won’t do.”

“Ah, now!” quoth Farmer Wilson, pointing out the end of his pipe, “that’s what they’ll swallow down; that’s the song to make ’em kick.  Sing that, miss.  Furrin songs ’s all right enough; but ’Ale it is my tipple, and England is my nation!’ Let’s have something plain and flat on the surface, miss.”

Dame Wilson jogged her husband’s arm, to make him remember that talking was his dangerous pastime, and sent abroad a petition for a song-book; and after a space a very doggy-eared book, resembling a poodle of that genus, was handed to her.  Then uprose a shout for this song and that; but Emilia fixed upon the one she had in view, and walked back to her harp, with her head bent, perusing it attentively all the way.  There, she gave the book to Captain Gambier, and begged him to hold it open before her, with a passing light of eyes likely to be rather disturbing to a jealous spectator.  The Captain seized the book without wincing, and displayed a remarkable equanimity of countenance as he held it out, according to direction.  No sooner had Emilia struck a prelude of the well-known air, than the interior of the booth was transfigured; legs began to move, elbows jerked upward, fingers fillipped:  the whole body of them were ready to duck and bow, dance, and do her bidding she had fairly caught their hearts.  For, besides the pleasure they had in their own familiar tune, it was wonderful to them that Emilia should know what they knew.  This was the marvel, this the inspiration.  She smiled to see how true she had struck, and seemed to swim on the pleasure she excited.  Once, as her voice dropped, she looked up at Captain Gambier, so very archly, with the curving line of her bare throat, that Wilfrid was dragged down from his cynical observatory, and made to feel as a common man among them all.