“I am sorry to intrude, but you must really understand that this is too much! When people live in flats, it is essential that they show some consideration for their neighbours. Will you kindly listen to that?”
I listened. Winifred and Marion were playing at “bears,” and chasing Bridget to her death. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I had paid no attention, beyond a subconscious satisfaction that they were enjoying themselves. The roars did not annoy me, but they were certainly fairly loud. I tendered a civil explanation.
“It’s Mr Thorold’s little girls. Their brother has been dangerously ill. They are staying with me.”
“Is there any necessity for them to shriek at the pitch of their voices?”
“They are out for hours every day. This is their play-time before they go to bed. They go at seven.”
“And wake at six! For the last fortnight we have been disturbed every morning. My husband wishes me to say that if it goes on he will complain to the landlord. I have complained before, as you know, but without effect. Ever since you came we have been annoyed.”
I was furious. Whatever had happened during the last fortnight, no one could have been quieter before. “And what about themselves?” I said coldly. “Do you imagine that the landlord will be able to make children sleep beyond their usual hour?”
“Certainly not, but they can be kept quiet. When people go to bed late”—she stopped short, arrested by my expression, stared for a moment, and then concluded—“they naturally object to being disturbed in the morning. We breakfast at nine. This morning we were kept awake by quarrelling voices for over an hour.”
I bowed politely.
“I am sorry. It is most disagreeable. I have had the same experience myself, but at the beginning of the night.”