The smell of it was not pleasant.  Peggy drew back.

“Oh, no, you first!”

“No, you,” said William nobly.  “You look hungrier than me.”

She bit off a piece, chewed it, shut her eyes and swallowed.

“Now you,” she said with a shade of vindictiveness in her voice. 
“You’re not going to not have any.”

William took a mouthful and shivered.

“I think it’s gone bad,” he said critically.

Peggy’s rosy face had paled.

“I’m going home,” she said suddenly.

“You can’t go home on a desert island,” said William severely.

“Well, I’m going to be rescued then,” she said.

“I think I am, too,” said William.

It was lunch time when William arrived at the boarding-house.  Mr. Percival Jones had moved his place so as to be nearer Ethel.  He was now convinced that she was possessed of every virtue his future “spouse” could need.  He conversed brightly and incessantly during the meal.  Mr. Brown grew restive.

“The man will drive me mad,” he said afterwards.  “Bleating away!  What’s he bleating about anyway?  Can’t you stop him bleating, Ethel?  You seem to have influence.  Bleat!  Bleat!  Bleat!  Good Lord!  And me here for a rest cure!”

At this point he was summoned to the telephone and returned distraught.

“It’s an unknown female,” he said.  “She says that a boy of the name of William from this boarding-house has made her little girl sick by forcing her to eat seaweed.  She says it’s brutal.  Does anyone know I’m here for a rest cure?  Where is the boy?  Good heavens!  Where is the boy?”

But William, like Peggy, had retired from the world for a space.  He returned later on in the afternoon, looking pale and chastened.  He bore the reproaches of his family in stately silence.

Mr. Percival Jones was in great evidence in the drawing-room.

“And soon—­er—­soon the—­er—­Spring will be with us once more,” he was saying in his high-pitched voice as he leant back in his chair and joined the tips of his fingers together.  “The Spring—­ah—­the Spring!  I have a—­er—­little effort I—­er—­composed on—­er—­the Coming of Spring—­I—­er—­will read to you some time if you will—­ah—­be kind enough to—­er—­criticise—­ah—­impartially.”

“Criticise!” they chorused.  “It will be above criticism.  Oh, do read it to us, Mr. Jones.”

“I will—­er—­this evening.”  His eyes wandered to the door, hoping and longing for his beloved’s entrance.  But Ethel was with her father at a matinee at the Winter Gardens and he looked and longed in vain.  In spite of this, however, the springs of his eloquence did not run dry, and he held forth ceaselessly to his little circle of admirers.

“The simple—­ah—­pleasures of nature.  How few of us—­alas!—­have the—­er—­gift of appreciating them rightly.  This—­er—­little seaside hamlet with its—­er—­sea, its—­er—­promenade, its—­er—­Winter Gardens!  How beautiful it is!  How few appreciate it rightly.”