Emilia sang softly to him.

When she had finished, Mr. Pole applauded her mildly.

“Your music, my dear?”

“My music:  Mr. Runningbrook’s words.  But only look.  He will not change a word, and some of the words are so curious, they make me lift my chin and pout.  It’s all in my throat.  I feel as if I had to do it on tiptoe.  Mr. Runningbrook wrote the song in ten minutes.”

“He can afford to—­comes of a family,” said Mr. Pole, and struck up a bit of “Celia’s Arbour,” which wandered into “The Soldier Tired,” as he came bendingly, both sets of fingers filliping, toward Emilia, with one of those ancient glee—­suspensions, “Taia—­haia—­haia—­haia,” etc., which were meant for jolly fellows who could bear anything.

“Eh?” went Mr. Pole, to elicit approbation in return.

Emilia smoothed the wrinkles of her face, and smiled.

“There’s nothing like Port,” said Mr. Pole.  “Get little Runningbrook to write a song:  “There’s nothing like Port.”  You put the music.  I’ll sing it.”

“You will,” cried Emilia.

“Yes, upon my honour! now my feet are warmer, I by Jingo! what’s that?” and again he wore that strange calculating look, as if he were being internally sounded, and guessed at his probable depth.  “What a twitch!  Something wrong with my stomach.  But a fellow must be all right when his spirits are up.  We’ll be off as quick as we can.  Taia—­haihaia—­hum.  If the farce is bad, it’s my last night of theatre-going.”

The delight at being in a theatre kept Emilia dumb when she gazed on the glittering lights.  After an inspection of the house, Mr. Pole kindly remarked:  “You must marry and get out of this.  This’d never do.  All very well in the boxes:  but on the stage—­oh, no!  I shouldn’t like you to be there.  If my girls don’t approve of the doctor, they shall look out somebody for you.  I shouldn’t like you to be painted, and rigged out; and have to squall in this sort of place.  Stage won’t do for you.  No, no!”

Emilia replied that she had given up the stage; and looked mournfully at the drop-scene, as at a lost kingdom, scarcely repressing her tears.

The orchestra tuned and played a light overture.  She followed up the windings of the drop-scene valley, meeting her lover somewhere beneath the castle-ruin, where the river narrowed and the trees intertwined.  On from dream to dream the music carried her, and dull fell the first words of the farce.  Mr. Pole said, “Now, then!” and began to chuckle.  As the farce proceeded, he grew more serious, repeating to Emilia, quite anxiously:  “I wonder whether that boy Braintop’s enjoying it.”  Emilia glanced among the sea of heads, and finally eliminated the head of Braintop, who was respectfully devoting his gaze to the box she occupied.  When Mr. Pole had been assisted to discover him likewise, his attention alternated between Braintop and the stage, and he expressed annoyance from time to time