"The truth is, I shall have to murder her!" said Mark gloomily. "I see
no way out of it."
"I could not be really happy with a husband whose hands were red with
gore," I remarked. "I'm super-sensitive, I know. I can't help it. I was
made so. If you murder her, I warn you I shall throw you over. And where
would you be then?"
"Exactly where I am now, as far as marrying you is concerned. You may
throw me over as much as you like. I shan't turn a hair."
He had not many hairs left to turn, and perhaps he remembered that fact,
and that I held nothing sacred, for he hurried on in an aggrieved tone:
"You never give me credit for any imagination. I'm not going to spill
her blood. I'm much too tidy. I've thought it all out. I shall take you
and her on a picnic to the New Forest, and trot you both about till
you're nearly famished. And then for luncheon I shall produce a tin of
potted lobster. I shall choose it very carefully with a bulging tin.
Potted lobster is deadly when the tin bulges. And as the luncheon will
be at my expense, she will eat more than usual. She will 'partake
heartily,' as the newspapers will say afterwards; at least, as I hope
they will have occasion to say. And then directly the meal is over the
lobster will begin to do its duty, and swell inside her, and she'll
begin struggling among the picnic things. I shan't be there. I shall
have gone for a little stroll. You will support her in her last moments.
I don't mind helping with the funeral. I'd do that willingly."