“No!” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” remonstrated Allan. “‘The moon was shining bright—‘”
“The moon wasn’t doing anything of the kind,” said Mrs. Pentecost.
Pedgift Junior, foreseeing a dispute, persevered sotto voce with the accompaniment, in the interests of harmony.
“Moore’s own words, ma’am,” said Allan, “in my mother’s copy of the Melodies.”
“Your mother’s copy was wrong,” retorted Mrs. Pentecost. “Didn’t I tell you just now that I knew Tom Moore by heart?”
Pedgift Junior’s peace-making concertina still flourished and groaned in the minor key.
“Well, what did the moon do?” asked Allan, in despair.
“What the moon ought to have done, sir, or Tom Moore wouldn’t have written it so,” rejoined Mrs. Pentecost. “‘The moon hid her light from the heaven that night, and wept behind her clouds o’er the maiden’s shame!’ I wish that young man would leave off playing,” added Mrs. Pentecost, venting her rising irritation on Gustus Junior. “I’ve had enough of him—he tickles my ears.”
“Proud, I’m sure, ma’am,” said the unblushing Pedgift. “The whole science of music consists in tickling the ears.”