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.

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.”