Mrs. C. Indeed? Well, I've no voice, I'm sorry to say; but I play the piano a little—only a very little, you know.
Mr. L. Wonderful what a lot of people do play in these days—(hastily)—not like you, of course; but one hears pianos and fiddles going in every house, and most of them are simply instruments of torture.
Mrs. C. (smiling). Rather a rash remark—isn't it? You've never heard me play, you see! (Mr. L. endeavours to protest.) Oh, but I assure you I quite agree with you. For instance, my next-door neighbours are always making the most awful noises—playing and singing morning, noon, and night. The wall is very thin, and I am nearly driven crazy.
Mr. L. (warmly). My dear Madam, I can sympathise with you entirely. I've often thought that Parliament ought to pass a Bill for enforcing a close-time in domestic music. Of course it only matters to me in the evening, but we're troubled exactly in the same way as yourself. And my poor Ethel finds her singing constantly interrupted by the disgusting row made by our next-door neighbour. I suppose he must take a pleasure in annoying us—anyhow he's jammed his wretched piano right up against our drawing-room wall, and bangs and thumps on it for about six hours a day. Of course it would be bad enough if the fellow played well; but you never heard such ghastly noises as he makes!
Mrs. C. How sorry I am for your poor daughter! Yes; people complain in the papers and grumble about street-bands and piano-organs; but at least one can send them away—which, unfortunately, one can't do in the case of next-door neighbours! However, I suppose I ought to be grateful that the people on the other side don't play at all.
Mr. L. Ah! I live in a corner-house. But I think a little opposition noise would almost be a relief—a kind of homeopathic cure, you know.
Mrs. C. One's quite enough for me. It's been getting worse, too, these last few weeks, and I'm delighted to meet a fellow-sufferer. Come; can't we concoct some joint scheme of deliverance? Do you think it would answer if I sent round a polite note—"Mrs. Crumpington presents her compliments to Mr."—whatever their name is—"and would be extremely obliged,"—and so on. How would that do?
Mr. L. (decisively). Wouldn't be the least use, I assure you, or I'd have tried that plan myself long ago. The only result would be that they'd make more row than ever, on purpose to score off you. No, I fancy I've got a better plan than that.
Mrs. C. (eagerly). Oh, do tell me what it is!
Mr. L. Well, I happened to notice in a shop in Holborn the other day one of these new American toys, it's a kind of small fog-horn, driven by a pair of bellows. And the noise it makes is something terrific, I assure you—loud enough to drown half-a-dozen pianos. So I've ordered one of these, and as soon as ever that scoundrel strikes up next door, I shall turn on the horn; then, directly he stops, I'll stop too, you see. Rather a good idea, don't you think?