He seemed a little mollified; to the extent, at least, that his thunder became a more distant rumble.
“I don't want to ask too many favors at once, sir,” he said; “but I fear I must also request you to remove your piano to the basement for the next six-and-thirty hours. I shall not stand it, sir, I warn you!”
“My dear sir,” I cried, “that was but a—how does the immortal Shakespeare call it?—a countercheck quarrelsome—that was all. I should not have sung at all had I known you disliked music.”
“Music! music!” exclaimed my visitor, with an expressive blending of contempt and indignation. Then, in a milder tone, yet with the most crushing, irony, continued: “I go to every musical piece in London—and enjoy 'em sir; all of 'em. I've even sat out a concert in the Albert Hall; so if I'm not musical, what the deuce am I?”
“It is evident,” I replied.
“I might even appreciate your efforts, sir. Very possibly I would, very possibly, supposing I heard 'em at a reasonable hour,” said the General, with magnanimity that will one day send him to heaven. “But it is my habit, sir, to take a—ah—a rest in the afternoon, and—er—er—well, it's deuced disturbing.”
This is but the echo of the storm among the hills. The wrath of my gallant neighbor is evidently all but evaporated.
“A thousand apologies, sir. If you will be good enough to tell me at what hours my playing is disturbing to you, I shall regulate my melody accordingly.”
“Much obliged; much obliged. I don't want to stop you altogether, don't you know,” says my visitor, and abruptly inquires, “Professional musician, I presume?”
“Did I sound like it?”