The Murder of Busy Lizzie

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Well,’ said Marius Lovelaine, taking back the letter he had given his wife to read, ‘there are few things in life more welcome than a well-earned, well-planned holiday.’

‘Well-earned maybe,’ responded his wife, ‘but I don’t see where well-planned fits in. It seems to me that Eliza is doing the planning, and from what little I remember of her…’

‘Oh, well, this is Easter. We have plenty of time. All the same, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, my dear, and, from the warm tone of this letter, I fancy that Lizzie’s pudding will be worth the sampling.’

‘Maybe. For my own part, I would sooner go to Southend or Margate or even to one of those holiday camps which Sebastian tried last year and did not like, than stay in your sister’s loathsome little boarding-house, on an almost uninhabited island.’

‘Private hotel, Clothilde. In fact, I believe she likes it to be known as a country club.’

‘What a lot of high-falutin’ nonsense! It’s nothing more than a very inferior guest-house. I don’t suppose it’s got so much as a table licence! As for her scale of charges, we could at least have had a package holiday abroad for that amount of money. Trust Eliza not to give something for nothing, even to her closest relative, and, as matters stand, you are scarcely that!’

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