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.