e, for his part,
preferred old quarters: comfort versus grandeur.

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."

"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