Then Mr. Bungwall's gardener arrived, and said that he was sorry to disappoint us in any way, and it was not his fault, but the mushroom was a toadstool.
"This," I said to Eliza, "is something of a blow."
"Perhaps," she said, "Mr. Bungwall's gardener is mistaken."
"I fear not. But, however, I happened to mention about that mushroom to our head clerk this morning, and he said that he thoroughly understood mushrooms, and had made a small profit by growing them. To-morrow morning I will pick that toadstool or mushroom, as the case may be, take it up to the city, and ask him about it."
Eliza agreed that this would be the best way.
But at breakfast next morning she seemed thoughtful and somewhat depressed. I asked her what she was thinking about.
"It's like this," she said. "If your head clerk says that our toadstool is a mushroom, while Mr. Bungwall's gardener says that our mushroom is a toadstool, we sha'n't like to eat it because of Mr. Bungwall's gardener, and we sha'n't like to throw it away because of your head clerk, and I don't see what to do with it."
"You forget, my dear. We have a third opinion. Jane says the mushroom is a mushroom."
"Jane will say anything."