'Well, that doesn't hurt,' answered Mr. Van Torp.
He heard a sort of snort of scorn on the other side and there was silence again. But before long, as he got away from his upper lip with the razor, he unconsciously began to whistle again, and he must have made the same mistake as before, for he was interrupted by a deep groan of pain from the next room. [{134}]
'Not feeling very well?' he inquired in a tone of dry jocularity. 'Stomach upset?'
'E sharp!' screamed the wretched pianist.
Van Torp could hear him dancing with rage, or pain.
'See here, whoever you are, don't call names! I don't like it. See? I've paid for this room and I'm going on whistling if I like, and just as long as I like.'
'You say you make noises you like?' cried the infuriated musician. 'Oh, no! You shall not! There are rules! We are not in London, sir, we are in Bayreuth! If you make noises, you shall be thrown out of the house.'
'Shall I? Well, now, that's a funny sort of a rule for a hotel, isn't it?'
'I go complain of you,' retorted the other, and Mr. Van Torp heard a door opened and shut again.
In a few minutes he had done all that the conditions would permit in the way of making himself presentable, and just as he left the room he was met by Stemp, the twenty-five minutes being just over.