udgement, as who should say,
"Queer, but good." They gave Emilia their faces, which was all she
wanted! and silence, save for an intermingling soft snore, here and
there, the elfin trumpet of silence. To tell truth, certain heads had
bowed low to the majesty of beer, and were down on the table between
sprawling doubled arms. No essay on the power of beer could exhibit it
more convincingly than, the happy indifference with which they received
admonishing blows from quart-pots, salutes from hot pipe-bowls, pricks
from pipe-ends, on nose, and cheek, and pate; as if to vindicate for
their beloved beverage a right to rank with that old classic drink
wherewith the fairest of women vanquished human ills. The majority,
however, had been snatched out of this bliss by the intrusion of their
wives, who sat beside them like Consciences in petticoats; and it must
be said that Emilia was in favour with the married men, for one reason,
because she gave these broad-ribboned ladies a good excuse for
allowing their lords to stop where they were so comfortable, a
continually-extending five minutes longer.

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
in