The contents of this old yellow seal formed the chief part of the merchant's meal. Emilia was induced to drink two full glasses.
“Doesn't that make your feet warm, my dear?” said Mr. Pole.
“It makes me want to talk,” Emilia confessed.
“Ah! we shall have some fun to-night. 'To-the-rutte-ta-to!' If you could only sing, 'Begone dull care!' I like glees: good, honest, English, manly singing for me! Nothing like glees and madrigals, to my mind. With chops and baked potatoes, and a glass of good stout, they beat all other music.”
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.