Jenny had kept on playing. His wife sat behind the piano and watched him. `What’s wrong now?’ she asked. `Can’t people enjoy themselves?’
`I don’t mind people enjoying themselves,’ said an angry Mr Coombes, `but I am not going to accept such noise on a Sunday!’
`What is wrong with my playing now?’ asked Jenny, stopping and twirling around on the music stool.
Mr Coombes couldn’t stop himself; he was angry and he opened his mouth without thinking. `Be careful with that music stool,’ he said. ‘It isn’t made for heavy-weights.’
`Never you mind about my weight,’ said Jenny angrily. ‘What did you say about my playing?’
`Surely you don’t mind a bit of music on a Sunday, Mr Coombes?’ asked Jenny’s male guest, leaning back in Mr Coombes’s armchair and smiling.
‘Never mind him,’ said Mrs Coombes, addressing Jenny but staring at her husband. ‘Just you keep on playing.’
`I do mind,’ said Mr Coombes to Jenny’s guest.
`May I ask why?’ asked the guest. He was enjoying himself and Mr Coombes saw that he wanted an argument. He was a thin young man, dressed in a bright clothes and a white cravat with a silver pin.
`Because,’ began Mr Coombes, `it doesn’t suit me. I am a businessman; I have to consider my connections.’
`His connections,’ said Mrs Coombes with scorn. `He is always saying that.’
`Then why did you marry me?’ Mr Coombes asked.
Jenny started to play the piano. The same little tune over and over again.
‘STOP IT,’ cried Mr Coombes and stood up.
`No violence now,’ said the guest.
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