Climax was heralded by poisoned fish....
Stuart went nearly every day now to his business in High Holborn, returning to Bournemouth in time for dinner in the evening. On a certain Friday, he was met in the hall by the Cabbage-rose, who informed him in sprightly tones:
“We shall be tête-à-tête for dinner to-night, Mr. Heron.”
On the grounds that some things are too bad to be true, Stuart did not at once grasp the prospect:
“Where’s everybody, then?”
“All ill!” announced the Cabbage-rose triumphantly; and some of her evening-dress fell off.
“All?”
“My poor Johnny has been terribly bad, and so has Mrs. Percival. And, if you listen, you will hear Sir James groaning. There was mackerel for breakfast this morning, and it can’t have been quite good. I took a boiled egg, and you, of course, had gone off to town before the fish came, so you see we are sole survivors!” she adjusted a slippery shoulder-strap, and trilled with laughter at the compromising situation.—Then her face fell, as she spied the Disagreeable Female marching down the stairs.
“I’m better. Not well, but better. I’ve had no food and no attention all day, so I trust there’s a substantial dinner. Good evening, Mr. Heron; I wish to complain of the fish we had for breakfast to-day. We’ve all been seriously indisposed. One has to eat mackerel or nothing, because there was only one egg, and naturally we couldn’t all have that,” and here she glared at the Cabbage-rose. “I believe I am voicing the dissatisfaction of all the visitors here, Mr. Heron, when I say that I consider it your duty to be at home during the day to control these matters.—Ah! there is the gong, thank goodness. Even if you are running a second boarding establishment in London, it can hardly warrant neglect of us. Please pass the potatoes. I am bound to say that matters were improved during the fortnight you had entire control.”