Simon had soon dressed the dinner-table. By the time dinner was ready, Mr. Pole had sunk into such a condition of drowsiness, that it was hard to make him see why he should be aroused, and when he sat down, fronting Emilia, his eyes were glazed, and he complained that she was scarcely visible.
"Some of your old yellow seal, Simon. That's what I want. I haven't got better at home."
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."