“Oh, dear, no,” he said, smiling.
“Because I don’t think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours’ lodgers,” said Mrs Fiddison. “I might put up with strings, or wood, but I could not manage brass.”
“I do not play any instrument,” said Richard, looking at the lady in a troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.
“So many orchestral gentlemen live about here,” said Mrs Fiddison. “You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley’s, next door but one; but Waggly’s have given the kettledrum notice.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing her apron.
“Yes,” said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork. “The last new pattern, sir.”
Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.
“Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir.”
“They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles,” said the lady. “A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don’t object to the smell of the crape, you’d not know there was anything going on in the house.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind,” said Richard.