The odour was certainly strong—­acrid, but by no means disgusting.  He broke off a piece, and the fresh surface was a creamy white, that changed like magic in the space of ten seconds to a yellowish-green colour.  It was even an inviting-looking change.  He broke off two other pieces to see it repeated.  They were wonderful things these fungi, thought Mr. Coombes, and all of them the deadliest poisons, as his father had often told him.  Deadly poisons!

There is no time like the present for a rash resolve.  Why not here and now? thought Mr. Coombes.  He tasted a little piece, a very little piece indeed—­a mere crumb.  It was so pungent that he almost spat it out again, then merely hot and full-flavoured:  a kind of German mustard with a touch of horse-radish and—­well, mushroom.  He swallowed it in the excitement of the moment.  Did he like it or did he not?  His mind was curiously careless.  He would try another bit.  It really wasn’t bad—­it was good.  He forgot his troubles in the interest of the immediate moment.  Playing with death it was.  He took another bite, and then deliberately finished a mouthful.  A curious, tingling sensation began in his finger-tips and toes.  His pulse began to move faster.  The blood in his ears sounded like a mill-race.  “Try bi’ more,” said Mr. Coombes.  He turned and looked about him, and found his feet unsteady.  He saw, and struggled towards, a little patch of purple a dozen yards away.  “Jol’ goo’ stuff,” said Mr. Coombes.  “E—­lomore ye’.”  He pitched forward and fell on his face, his hands outstretched towards the cluster of pilei.  But he did not eat any more of them.  He forgot forthwith.

He rolled over and sat up with a look of astonishment on his face.  His carefully brushed silk hat had rolled away towards the ditch.  He pressed his hand to his brow.  Something had happened, but he could not rightly determine what it was.  Anyhow, he was no longer dull—­he felt bright, cheerful.  And his throat was afire.  He laughed in the sudden gaiety of his heart.  Had he been dull?  He did not know; but at any rate he would be dull no longer.  He got up and stood unsteadily, regarding the universe with an agreeable smile.  He began to remember.  He could not remember very well, because of a steam roundabout that was beginning in his head.  And he knew he had been disagreeable at home, just because they wanted to be happy.  They were quite right; life should be as gay as possible.  He would go home and make it up, and reassure them.  And why not take some of this delightful toadstool with him, for them to eat?  A hatful, no less.  Some of those red ones with white spots as well, and a few yellow.  He had been a dull dog, an enemy to merriment; he would make up for it.  It would be gay to turn his coat-sleeves inside out, and stick some yellow gorse into his waistcoat pockets.  Then home—­singing—–­for a jolly evening.

After the departure of Mr. Coombes, Jennie discontinued playing, and turned round on the music-stool again.  “What a fuss about nothing!” said Jennie.