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.
Mrs.Goodwyn-Sandys saw this, and broke into a silvery laugh.
The infection spread.