“Sweetly touching!” murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued—­

“O careless gods, to hear so ill,
And cheat the maid on you relying;
For false Lysander’s thriving still,
And ’tis Corinna lies a-dying.”

“Is that all?” asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed cheeks left the piano.

“That is all—­a little effort not worth—­”

“Oh, it is yours!  But,” with a sweet smile, “I ought to have guessed.  You must write a song for me one of these days.”

“Do you sing?” cried the delighted Mr. Moggridge.

Sam, who had been waiting for a chance to speak, shouted across the room—­“I say, Miss Limpenny, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys will sing if you ask her.”

After very little solicitation, and with none of the coyness common to amateurs, she seated herself at the instrument, quietly pulled off her gloves, and dashed without more ado into a rollicking Irish ditty.

“Be aisy an’ list to a chune
That’s sung uv bowld Tim, the dragoon;
Sure, ’twas he’d niver miss
To be stalin’ a kiss—­
Or a brace—­by the light uv the moon,
Aroon,
Wid a wink at the man in the moon!”

“Really!” murmured Miss Limpenny.  The keys of the decorous “Collard” clashed as they had never clashed before.  The guests, at first shocked and startled, began to be carried away with the reckless swing of the music.  The Vicar stared for a moment, and then began gradually to nod his head to the measure.

“You must sing the last line in chorus, please,” said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys from the piano—­

“Wid a wink at the man in the moon!”

It was sung timidly at first.  Nothing daunted, the performer plunged into the next verse—­

“Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick! 
For he’s gone from the land uv the quick: 
But he’s still makin’ luv
To the leddies above,
An’ be jabbers! he’ll tache ’em the thrick,
Avick,
Niver fear but he’ll tache ’em the thrick!”

There was no doubt this time.  By the spirit of her mad singing, by some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole company seemed possessed.  Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the Vicar.  He was actually joining in the chorus!  And what a chorus!  She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went up.

“’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.