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 incomprehensible to them.

An idol must have their attributes: a king must show his face now and then: a song must appeal to their intelligence, to subdue them quite.

This, as we know, is not the case in the higher circles.

Emilia may have divined it: possibly from the very great respect with which her finale was greeted.