"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore;
For they've only to sip
But the tip uv his lip,
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more,
Asthore,
By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"
It was no longer an assembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song. Laughingly, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rested her finger on the keys and looked around. These stolid Trojans had caught fire. There was the little Doctor purple all above his stock; there was the Vicar with inflated cheeks and a hag-ridden stare; there was Mr. Moggridge snapping his fingers and almost capering; there was Miss Limpenny with her under-jaw dropped and her eyes agape. They were charmed, bewitched, crazy.
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys saw this, and broke into a silvery laugh. The infection spread. In an instant the whole room burst into a peal, a roar. They laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks; they held their sides and laughed again. She had them at her will.
There was no more wonder after this. At supper the talk was furious and incessant; Miss Lavinia spoke of a "tipsy-cake," and never blushed; the Vicar took wine with everybody, and told more stories of Three-bottle Beauchamp; even Sophia laughed with the rest, although her heart was aching—for still her poet neglected her and hung with her brother on the lips of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. I saw him bring the poor girl's cloak in the hall afterwards and receive the most piteous of glances. I doubt if he noticed it.
Outside, the Admiral's double-bass was still droning the "Dead March" to Miss Limpenny's laurestinus grove. It was the requiem of our decorum. Long after I was in bed that night I heard the voice of Mr. Moggridge trolling down the street—
"An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick!"
"An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick!"
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys had "taught us the trick," indeed.