Margaret. Temperamental. I should say bad-tempered.
Mrs. Abbey [soothingly]. Oh no, ma'am. It isn't bad temper. I understand Mr. Pendleton. It's just another bad night he's had, that's what it is.
Pendleton [sarcastically polite]. Mrs. Abbey, you appear to have an intimate knowledge of how I pass the nights. It's becoming quite embarrassing.
Mrs. Abbey. You mustn't mind an old woman like me, sir.
[The sound of a piano hopelessly out of tune, in the apartment upstairs, is heard, the player banging out Mendelssohn's Wedding March with unusual insistence.]
Pendleton. There! That confounded piano again!
Margaret. And they always play the Wedding March. There must be an old maid living there.
Mrs. Abbey. They're doing that for a reason.
Margaret. What reason?
Mrs. Abbey. Their cook tole me yesterday that her missus thinks if she keeps on a-playing of the Wedding March, p'raps it'll give you an' Mr. Pendleton the idea of getting married. She don't believe in couples livin' to-gether, like you an' Mr. Pendleton.