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I'm ninety-five! You catch the drift of that, of course a healthy old age, secured by taking Poulter's Pills. Ah! what's this? 'Little sister's last request. I fancy the idea of that is to beg the family never to be without Poulter's Pills. Here again: 'Then you'll remember me! I'm afraid that title is not original; never mind, the song is.
Mudge and Miss Everard were out of the way, and at midday there was a conference. Mrs. Poulter declared that the time had now arrived for decisive action, so far as she was concerned. Mrs. Mudge's behaviour could not be endured. The servant's sudden departure for reasons unknown, had, to use Mrs. Poulter's words, 'put the coping-stone to the edifice. The newspaper grievance was this.
"Thank you, I won't," replied Mavis, who was not in the least danger of losing her foothold. "'E invented it." "Invented what?" "This floor wax. It's Poulter's patent," the little woman reverently informed Mavis. "He must be rather clever!" "Rather clever! It's plain you've never met 'im."
"Poulter's" Dancing Academy took some finding; she had no number to guide her, so she asked the two or three people she met if they could direct her to this institution, but not one of them appeared to know anything about it.
She had never quite lost touch with the elderly accompanist; they had sent each other cards at Christmas and infrequently exchanged picture postcards, Miss Nippett's invariably being a front view of "Poulter's," with Mr Poulter on the steps in such a position as not to obscure "Turpsichor" in the background.
Why Bozzle should have selected the Bremen Coffee House, in Poulter's Alley, for this meeting no fit reason can surely be given, unless it was that he conceived himself bound to select the most dreary locality within his knowledge on so melancholy an occasion.
Poulter's reminiscences of the Peninsular War were removed from all suspicion of being mythical. Mr. Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous figure at Talavera, and had contributed not a little to the peculiar terror with which his regiment of infantry was regarded by the enemy.
"But, whatever you do, don't let her think I suggested it to you." "'Poulter's' can be the soul of tact and discretion," he informed her. After more conversation on the subject, Mavis was about to take her leave when the postman brought a parcel addressed to her at the academy, from her old Pennington friend, Mrs Trivett. It contained eggs, butter, and cream, together with a letter.
"You'll be saying you don't know the Old Bailey next." "I don't. But I know a lot of people who should." "Don't send 'em to 'Poulter's," said Miss Nippett. "There's enough already who're be'ind with their accounts." A few minutes later, Mr Poulter entered the room, wearing evening dress, dancing pumps, and a tawdry-looking insignia in his coat.
Poulter's Alley is a narrow dark passage somewhere behind the Mansion House; and the Bremen Coffee House, why so called no one can now tell, is one of those strange houses of public resort in the City at which the guests seem never to eat, never to drink, never to sleep, but to come in and out after a mysterious and almost ghostly fashion, seeing their friends, or perhaps their enemies, in nooks and corners, and carrying on their conferences in low, melancholy whispers.
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