"Come, come, isn't that asking too much?"

"I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?"

"I repeat--sell it."

"You know that I haven't a dog's chance of selling it now. Don't

flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You're too big a man, too good a sort. You've

treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this

hole, if you can."

Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it

meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back,

scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the

oracle spoke portentously:

"I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don't want that

commode; but, to oblige you, I'll give you five hundred for it, and

chance making a hundred profit."

"Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark."

"I repeat--I never haggle."

"Damn it! I must cut a loss."

"Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four

hours. Isn't Tomlin a friend of yours?"

"We've had many dealings together."

"He might pay more."

"Not he. I'll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many thanks. I'll not

forget this."

Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the commode to an American

millionaire for two thousand five hundred pounds, but Quinney,

fortunately for his peace of mind, never discovered this till some years

had passed.

He told Tom Tomlin that Lark was a perfect gentleman, and that the story

of the Rapper and the London "Cries" was a malicious lie on the face of

it.

Tomlin sniffed.

*CHAPTER XI*

*MORE BLUDGEONINGS*

*I*

The loss of four hundred pounds stimulated our hero to greater efforts.

Deep down in his heart, moreover, lay the desire to rehabilitate

himself. Susan had spared him exasperating reproaches, but he perceived,

so he fancied, pity in her faithful eyes. Her ministrations recalled

that humiliating Channel crossing, when his superiority as a male had

been buried in a basin! Let us admit that he wanted to play the god

with Susan, to shake the sphere of home with his Olympian nod, to hear

her soft ejaculation: "Joe, dear, you are wonderful!"

At this crisis in his fortunes he found himself, for the first time in

his life, with time on his hands. His premises were overstocked to such

an extent that he dared not run the temptation of attending sales. To

succeed greatly, he only needed customers, and they shunned him as if

Soho Square were an infected district.

It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a highly speculative

business. Tomlin was clear upon this point.

"It's a gamble if you go for big things. Buying that commode was a

gamble. You can't escape from it. That's what makes it interesting.

Win a tidy bit here, lose a tidy bit there, and it's all the same a

hundred years hence."

This familiar philosophy percolated through Quinney's mind. It never

occurred to him that he could be called a gambler, and yet something in

him thrilled at the name. He heard Tomlin's platitudes, and wondered

why he had never thought of them before.

"Farming's gambling--a mug's game! Sooner put my money on to a horse

than into the ground! Marriage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck

a winner, my lad--I didn't."

"I suppose," said Quinney, staring hard at Tomlin, "that you don't

gamble outside your business?"

"Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip."

"Race-horses?"

"Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I'm fairly in the know, I

am. Make a little bit, lose a little bit! It binges me up when I feel

blue."

"I'd like to get back a slice o' that lost four hundred quid."

"Maybe I can help you to do it. A customer of mine is in the Kaffir

Market."

"Kaffir Market! What's that?"

It has been said that Quinney was grossly ignorant of things outside his

own business.

"If you ain't as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes! African Mines, you

greenhorn! He tells me of things. Never let me down--not once. He

says a boom is just due."

"Do you risk much, Tom?"

"Lord bless you, no! I buy a few likely shares on margin, and carry 'em

over. A man must have some excitement."

"Yes," said Quinney thoughtfully, "he must."

He did not mention this talk to Susan, but as he kicked his heels

waiting for customers, the necessity of excitement--any

excitement--gripped at his vitals. Meanwhile, let it be placed to his

credit that he resisted the daily temptation to sell stuff to dealers.

He could have sold his treasures to Lark at a fine profit, but he

remained true to the principle: keep your best things to attract private

customers. He hoped that his kind patron, Lord Mel, would come to see

him. Possibly his lordship was offended, because his advice had been

spurned. Then he heard that Lord Mel was abroad, and not likely to

return to England for several months. He missed the bi-weekly meetings

at the Mitre, and he did not dare to tell his Susan that he was

depressed and dull, because he dreaded the inevitable "I told you so."

Susan missed her few friends, and Quinney strained his powers of

deception in the attempt to cheer her up by affirming that he had

bettered his position by leaving Melchester.

Many wise persons contend that if you want anything inordinately, you

get it. Excitement came to Quinney when he least expected it.

*II*

Hitherto adventurers of the first flight had left him alone. Small

imposters are easily detected. Nobody could deal with the baser sort of

trickster more drastically than Quinney. Rappers, for example, rapped

in vain at his door. If he opened it, they never crossed the threshold.

But when a provincial pigeon, preening his wings, is discovered within a

stone's throw of the Greek quarter in London, some fancier is likely to

make an attempt to bag the bird. Such a one entered Quinney's

establishment some three months after the lamentable sale of the

commode. He appeared to be a quiet, well-dressed man, and he wore a

single pearl in his cravat, which inspired confidence. He asked Quinney

if he ever attended sales as an agent, to buy things on the usual

commission. Quinney had acted as agent for Lord Mel upon several

occasions, and we may pardon him for mentioning the fact to the

stranger, who seemed mildly impressed. He remarked casually that he

knew Lord Mel, and had shot some high pheasants at Mel Court. Quinney,

in his turn, was impressed by this information, for he knew that Lord

Mel was nice in his selection of guests. Eventually Quinney consented

to attend a certain sale, and to bid for two Dutch pictures which the

stranger had marked in a catalogue.

"This is my card," said the stranger. "I shall be happy to give you a

banker's reference." He named a well-known bank, but Quinney was quite

satisfied with the name and address on the card. His visitor was an

army officer, a Major Fraser, and he belonged to a famous Service Club.

Somewhat to his disappointment, the two Dutch pictures fetched a price

beyond the limit imposed by the Major, who dropped in next day and

expressed his regrets. He was so civil and genial that Quinney hoped to

have the honour of serving him on some future occasion. The Major

glanced at the sanctuary and before leaving paid ten pounds for a small

Bow figure, and ordered it to be sent to the Savoy Hotel. After he had

gone, Quinney found a letter addressed to Major Archibald Fraser, of

Loch Tarvie, Inverness, N.B. He sent back the letter with the Bow

figure, and he was curious enough to look up Major Archibald Fraser in

Kelly's _Handbook to the Titled, Landed, and Official Classes_. He

discovered, to his satisfaction, that the Major owned two properties in

Scotland, and was a Justice of the Peace. He had married the daughter

of a well-known Scotch magnate. Quinney chuckled and rubbed his hands.

The right sort were finding their way to Soho Square at last. After this

the Major dropped in again and again, always in search of knowledge,

which Quinney supplied with increasing pleasure. In a word, the pigeon

was ready for plucking.

During his next visit the Major spoke with enthusiasm of a picture he

had discovered in Dorset. He assured Quinney that the picture was a

genuine Murillo. Then he pulled a bundle of notes out of his pocket,

handed twenty pounds to Quinney, and delivered the following speech:

"I must go to Inverness to-night," he said regretfully. "My factor has

wired for me about the letting of a forest of mine. Take this money on

account of expenses, go to Dorchester, do yourself well--there is an

excellent inn there, and a few bottles left of some '68 port. To-morrow

there will be a sale at a small auction mart in the town. This picture

will be offered. Here's a photograph of it. Buy it for me. In three

days I shall be back in town."

He was hurrying away when Quinney stopped him. Queer notions of business

these army gentlemen had, to be sure!

"What am I to bid for the picture, Major?"

"I'll go to fifteen hundred. I shouldn't be furious if you paid a

hundred more. Wire to Loch Tarvie! Bye-bye!"

He was away before Quinney could get in another word.

"Thruster, and no error!" murmured Quinney to himself.

He travelled to Dorchester that afternoon and paid a visit to the

auction mart before dinner. The auctioneer knew him, and expressed

surprise at seeing him, for he was selling only job lots.

"Nothing to interest you, Mr. Quinney."

"Perhaps not. I'll have a squint round as I am here."

The auctioneer accompanied him, and Quinney soon found his picture,

which was very dirty and inconspicuous. Old masters were not in his

line, but he recognized the frame at once as being genuine--a fine

specimen of carved wood, although much battered. The auctioneer said

carelessly:

"I had a gentleman staring at that picture this morning. You're after

the frame, I dare say."

Quinney made no reply. He saw that a small portion of the dirty canvas

had been rubbed.

"Might look quite different if it was cleaned," said the auctioneer.

"The other fellow did that with his handkerchief and a small bottle of

stuff he carried in his pocket. I didn't like to object. Colour comes

out nicely!"

"Who does it belong to?"

"A stranger to me. I take everything as it comes. I'm in a small way of

business, as you know, Mr. Quinney; but some nice stuff has passed

through my hands."

He plunged into an ocean of reminiscences, punctuating his remarks with

lamentations of ignorance.

"If I really knew. Suppose it's a gift. You have it, Mr. Quinney. I

have a sort of general knowledge of values, but it's the special

knowledge that picks up the big bargains."

Quinney returned to his hotel.

At the auction next day two or three country dealers, small men, with

whom he had a nodding acquaintance, were bidding. The gentleman who was

interested in the picture was present also, languidly indifferent to the

proceedings. However, he became animated when the picture was put up as

"a valuable Madonna and Child, the work of an old master." The

gentleman bid a hundred for it, apparently to the surprise of the small

dealers.

"One hundred and twenty-five," said Quinney.

The gentleman bent down to whisper a word to a man who stood next him,

and then he stared hard at Quinney, with a slight frown upon his smooth

forehead.

"One hundred and fifty," he said quietly.

Finally Quinney secured the picture for eleven hundred pounds, well

pleased at having secured it so cheap. The rival bidder led him aside.

"You are the famous dealer, Joseph Quinney?"

Quinney smiled complacently. The gentleman continued in a whisper:

"I expected to get that picture for a hundred pounds. You have fairly

outbidden me, and I could not bid a farthing more to-day; but will you

kindly tell me what you will take for your bargain?"

"Sorry," said Quinney; "but I bought it on a commission for a well-known

collector."

"There is no more to be said," replied the other.

He nodded pleasantly and vanished. Quinney never saw him again. Nor

did he see Major Archibald Fraser. Quinney paid the auctioneer with a

cheque, and returned to London, after wiring the Major that the treasure

was his. Three days later, not hearing a word from his client, he

became slightly uneasy. His cheque had been cashed; the picture was in

his possession. The abominable truth leaked out slowly. Major

Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, had been impersonated by a _chevalier

d'industrie_. The picture was worth, perhaps, forty pounds, and the

frame another five-and-twenty!

The pigeon from the country had been plucked.

*III*

The poor fellow sobbed out the facts to his Susan in a passion of

self-abasement. The loss of the money was serious enough, but what

ground him to powder was the fact that he had become the laughing-stock

of the London dealers. Every man jack of them knew. He could not show

his face in an auction room without provoking spasms of raucous

laughter. The Dorchester auctioneer, called upon to prove his innocence

(which he did), made the tale public. It was acclaimed as "copy" by

scores of newspapers. And salt was rubbed into his wounds by the

reporters whose sympathy seemed to lie with the two scoundrels who had

devised so clever a scheme, and escaped with the swag! There was a

cruel headline: "A Biter Bit."

"Whom have I bit?" he demanded of Susan.

The little woman mingled her tears with his, but no words of hers could

assuage his misery or stem the torrent of self-accusation.

"Nice sort of fool you've married! A mug of mugs! You was right.

Ought to have remained in Melchester! Ought to have remained in

swaddling clothes! Ought never to have been born!"

He apostrophized Posy, now a child of ten.

"Nice sort of father you've got! Look at him! Why didn't you choose

somebody else, hey? Picked a wrong'un, you did!"

Posy lifted her young voice and wept with her parents. And then Susan,

almost hysterical, said with unconscious humour:

"Gracious! Isn't this a rainy afternoon!"

*IV*

After a few days the sun shone again. Lord Mel, who had returned to

England, called upon his former tenant, and listened with sympathy to

the tale of thwackings. Quinney added details which he had kept from

Susan. Fired by Tomlin, he had ventured into the Kaffir Market, where

the bears had mauled him. His losses, fortunately, were inconsiderable;

but once again he had been "downed" by Londoners. He was too proud to

whine before Lord Mel, and from long habit he expressed himself

whimsically.

"Not fit to cross the road without a policeman. Time I advertised for a

nurse or a keeper!"

"Are you thinking of going back to Melchester?"

At this Quinney exploded.

"My lord, I couldn't face Pinker, and Mrs. Biddlecombe would cackle and

nag at me till I wrung her neck. She wrote to Susan to say that she was

sorry to hear that the Lord had seen fit to afflict me grievously. In

her heart she's glad."

"You don't blame the Lord?"

"I blame myself. I've been a silly daw, strutting about like a peacock.

I wanted a fight, and I've had it; but I can't go back to Melchester. I

must stick it out here, win or lose, customers or no customers. If the

worst comes to the worst, I can sell to dealers. It means slavery."

"But you have some customers?"

"Very few--the wrong sort. Mostly women, who don't value their own time

or mine. They look at my stuff, and call it 'rather nice'; they try to

pick up a few wrinkles about glass and porcelain, and then they drift

out, promising to call again."

"We must try to alter this."

"It does me good to see your lordship's face again."

Lord Mel bought a table and some Irish glass. He shook Quinney's hand

at parting genially.

"You've had a dose. Perhaps your system needed it. Pay my respects to

Mrs. Quinney, and tell her not to worry."

Quinney ran upstairs to Susan.

"Lord Mel's been in. Sent his respects to you. You're not to

worry--see?"

"I am not worrying much, Joe. Nobody escapes hard times."

"His lordship has faith in me. He ain't offended. Just the same as

ever. I told him everything--more than I told you."

"More than you told me?"

"I lost a few hundreds dabbling in mines. All that foolishness is over

and done with. I mean to stick to what I know, and the people I know

who'll stick to me. I shall give my undivided attention to business. I

mean to work harder than ever, so as to win back what I've lost."

"How much have you lost, dear?"

"I'm not speakin' of money, Susie. I've lost my self-respect, and I

don't stand with you just where I did."

"You do--you know you do!"

He shook his head obstinately.

"I know I don't. You ain't suffering from a crick in the neck along of

lookin' up at me. I ain't been soaring lately. Wriggling like a

crushed worm about fits me."

"Joe, dear, you've never quite understood me."

"Hey?"

"I married you for better or worse."

He stared at her amazedly.

"Lawsy! It never entered into your pretty head that it could be for

worse?"

"I should love you just the same if it were."

"No, no, that ain't sense, Susie. It won't wash. You loved me because I

was Joe Quinney--a feller with ambitions, a worker, a man with brains in

his head. If I failed you, I should expect you to despise me. I should

feel that I'd had you under false pretences."

Susan smiled very faintly. Her voice was curiously incisive:

"You have a lot to learn yet, Joe, about persons."

*CHAPTER XII*

*POSY*

*I*

Lord Mel sent many customers to Soho Square. He felt sincerely sorry for

the little man, and told everybody that he was a fighter and a striver,

and "straight." Within a few months Quinney became the Quinney of old,

full of enthusiasm and swagger, exuding energy, quite confident that he

was soaring and likely to become a spire! An American millionaire one

morning made a clean sweep of half the treasures in the sanctuary.

Orders to furnish rooms in a given style with first-class reproductions

came joyously to hand, and were executed promptly and at a reasonable

price.

In due time, also, he became a member of the inner ring of big dealers.

They tried to "freeze him out" by inflating prices, often at a serious

loss to themselves, but eventually they were constrained to admit that

the Melchester man was too shrewd for them, with a knowledge of values

which seemed to have fallen upon him like the dew from heaven. At any

moment he might stop bidding with an abruptness very disconcerting to

the older men, leaving them with the _lapin_ which they were trying to

impose upon him.

In those early days he found the Caledonian market a happy

hunting-ground, securing immense quantities of Georgian steel

fire-irons, fenders, and dog-grates, at that time in no demand. He

stored them in his immense cellars, covering them with a villainous

preparation of his own which defied rust.

"Good stuff to lay down," he remarked.

Afterwards the big dealers asked him how he had contrived to foresee the

coming demand for old cut glass. Of this he had bought immense

quantities also. He answered them in his own fashion.

"Can you tell me why one breed of dog noses out truffles?"

He bought innumerable spinets, good, bad, and indifferent, with reckless

confidence. Even Tomlin remonstrated.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"You'll see," said Quinney.

One more blunder--and the use to which he turned it--must be chronicled.

By this time he was recognized as an expert on eighteenth-century

furniture. But he admitted that there were one or two who knew more than

he. Tomlin, for example, who would drop in at least once a week for a

chat and a glass of brown sherry. Upon one of these visits he found

Quinney in a state of enthusiasm over a Chippendale armchair, unearthed

in a small provincial town. Tomlin examined it carefully, and

pronounced it a fake.

Quinney refused to believe this; but ultimately conviction that he had

been "had" once more was forced upon him.

"Bar none, it's the best copy I ever saw," remarked Tomlin.

Quinney accepted his old friend's chaff with some chucklings. Next day,

he returned to the provincial town, and discovered the young

cabinet-maker who had made the fake. He returned to Soho in triumph,

bringing the cabinet-maker with him. His name was James Miggott, and he

entered into a contract to serve Quinney for three years at a salary of

two pounds a week.

"Seems a lot," said Susan.

"He was earning twenty-five bob. I shall turn him loose on those

spinets."

Most people know something about Quinney's spinets transformed by the

hand of the skilful James into writing-desks, sideboards, and

dressing-tables. The spinets brought many customers to Soho Square.

"Stock booming?" said Tomlin.

"It is," said Quinney. He added reflectively: "I sold a spinet to-day,

for which I gave fifteen shillings, for just the same number o' pounds.

James put in just one week on it. That's all, by Gum!"

Some dealers maintain that Quinney made his reputation with spinets,

inasmuch as he sold more of them for a couple of years than the trade

put together. But he himself believes that his Waterford glass brought

the right customers--the famous collectors who buy little, but talk and

write much. They liked Quinney because he was so keen; and he never

grudged the time spent in showing his wares to non-buyers.

"They tell others," he observed to Susan. "No 'ad.' can beat that."

He had other dodges to capture trade. It became known that he charged

nothing for giving his opinion upon specimens submitted to him. And he

had an endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets within a

few months or weeks of the deal, offering an advance on the price paid,

a "nice little profit," invariably refused.

"Bless 'em! It warms their hearts to think they've made a sound

investment."

"How surprised and disappointed you'd be, Joe, if they accepted your

offer!"

"Right you are, Susie; but there's little fear of that, my girl."

When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney would adopt an air of

guileless indifference, which was likely to provoke the remark:

"Where is Mr. Quinney?"

"I'm Quinney. Like to have a look round? You may see something you

fancy."

"That's a nice pie-crust table."

"It's a gem. Cheap, too."

Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like note. James would

appear from below.

"Where's the receipted bill for this table?"

The bill was produced and shown to the stranger.

"See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five weeks ago. Look at

the date. You shall have it for six pounds, and, by Gum! I'll make you

this offer. You can return it to me any day you like within a year, and

I'll give you five pound ten for it. How's that, as between man and

man?"

These seemingly artless methods captivated the "think-it-overs" and the

"rather-nicers," who frequent curiosity shops in ever-increasing

numbers. Mothers brought daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical

information. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair because it was

so useful an object-lesson to young and inquiring minds.

"Look at that, madam," he would say. Perhaps the lady would murmur

softly: "It is rather nice, isn't it?" And the flapper would exclaim

enthusiastically: "Mumsie, it's perfectly lovely!"

"Much more than that!" Quinney would add, with mysterious chucklings.

"See that rose? It's a Stuart rose. And that crown on the front splat

is an emblem of loyalty to the Merry Monarch."

"Dear me! You hear that, Kitty!"

"Pay particular attention to the legs, ladies. Ball and paw, the lion's

paw, with hair above them, indicatin' the strength of the Constitootion

after the Restoration. Chapter of English history, that chair."

He could embellish such simple themes according to fancy, and with due

regard for the patience of his listener. To Susan he spoke of these

intellectual exercises as "my little song and dance."

*II*

Meanwhile, Posy was growing up, becoming a tall, slender, pretty girl.

She attended a day-school in Orchard Street--a select seminary for young

ladies. Susan accompanied her to and from Orchard Street. By this time

she had accepted, with a serenity largely temperamental, the fate

allotted to her. Once more Quinney was absorbed in his business.

Adversity had brought husband and wife together, prosperity sundered

them. Very rarely does it happen that a successful man can spare time

to spend on his wife. The charming slackers make the most congenial

mates. Compensation has thus ordained it, wherein lie tragedy and

comedy. Many women, to the end of their lives, are incapable of

realizing this elementary fact. They want their husbands to climb

high--the higher the better; they understand, perhaps more clearly than

men, what can be seen and enjoyed from the tops; they pluck, often as a

matter of course, and gobble up the grapes of Eschol, but they refuse to

accept the inevitable penalties of supreme endeavour. Their husbands

return to them almost foundered, fit only to eat and sleep. In the

strenuous competition of to-day what else is possible?

Susan did not complain, but then she belonged to the generation who

accepted with pious resignation life as it is. Indeed, she accounted

herself singularly fortunate, and whenever the present seemed dreary she

fortified herself by thinking of a rosy past, or projected herself into

an enchanted future, when he and she, Darby and Joan, would wander hand

in hand to some garden of sleep, some drowsy country churchyard, where

they would lie down together to await an ampler and happier intercourse

in the life beyond.

Her interest in persons as opposed to things quickened with the growth

of her child. Posy became to her what a Chelsea shepherdess modelled by

Roubillac was to Quinney--a bit of wonderful porcelain to be enshrined,

a museum piece! The maternal instincts budded and bloomed the more

bravely because conjugal emotion was denied full expression. She faced

unflinchingly the conviction that Posy must marry and leave her. By

that time Joe might be more ready to enjoy the fruits of labour. For

the moment, then, her husband was pigeon-holed. He remained at the back

of her mind, at the bottom of her heart, masked by that sprightly

creature, his daughter.

Posy accepted Susan's love as a matter of course.

*III*

For her years--she was just fifteen--the girl exhibited a precocious

intelligence and an essentially masculine shrewdness which distinguished

her sire. In the girl's presence Quinney observed no reticences.

Invariably he discussed, with boyish zest and volubility, the day's

trafficking. Posy was not allowed to potter about the shop, but she ran

at will in and out of the sanctuary, and she knew the value of every

"gem" in it, and its history. Susan dared not interfere, but she prayed

that Joe's child might not be tempted to worship false gods. In an

artless fashion she attempted to inculcate a taste for high romance. She

read aloud _Ivanhoe_, and was much distressed by Posy's comments upon

certain aspects of the tale.

"The men had a good time, but the women's lives must have been deadly.

I'm jolly glad that I'm a twen-center!" She continued fluently: "You

have a rotten time, mummie."

"My dear!"

"But you do. I couldn't stick your life!"

She used slang freely, protesting, when rebuked, that she picked it up

from the lips of her chum, Ethel Honeybun, who was exalted as the

daughter of a Member of Parliament. Susan's silence encouraged her to

go on:

"I want all the fun I can get. What fun have you had? You sew a lot,

you read aloud to me, you take me to school--although I'm quite able to

go alone--you order the meals, you are father's slave."

"I won't have you say that!"

"But it's true."

"I love your father. I married for love. I am happy and contented in

my own home. I have no patience with these new-fangled notions about

women's rights and women's wrongs."

"Ethel says----"

"I don't wish to hear what Ethel says. Fun, indeed! Why, child, I've

had you."

"Was that fun?" She spoke seriously, fixing her mother with a pair of

clear, grey eyes. "Some girls love dolls. Dolls rather bored me. Is

it fun to mess about with a baby, wash it and dress it, and take it out

in a pram? I call hockey fun."

"You'll lose a front tooth some fine day. That will be great fun."

"Let's be perfectly calm. I love talking things out. You don't. I

mean to say you try to hide your real self from me. Didn't you think

and talk as I do when you were a girl?"

"Most certainly not!"

"You are an old-fashioned darling, and I love you for it! I shouldn't

like you to talk as Mrs. Honeybun does. She says you and father spoil

me. I wonder if that's true. She gives Ethel beans sometimes, and

Ethel answers back as if they were equals. It would give Granny a fit

to hear her!"

Twice a year Posy paid a ceremonial visit to Mrs. Biddlecombe. The old

lady was very fond of her, although she sniffed at her upbringing.

Posy, indeed, had won a moral victory during her first visit, shortly

after the Quinneys moved to London. At the end of three days Mrs.

Biddlecombe had said majestically to the child:

"I hope you're enjoying yourself, my dear!"

"I'm not," said Posy, with shocking candour.

"Why not?" demanded the astonished grandmother.

"Because you've been so wonnerful peevish."

"Bless my soul, what next! Well, well, you are a pert little maid, but

I must try to be more agreeable."

Posy eyed her reflectively.

"I dare say," she murmured, "that I should be wonnerful peevish too, if

I was very, very old."

Quinney, against Susan's wishes and protests, insisted that the child

should be brought up "as a little princess." She was given many

so-called advantages. She was taught to play the piano indifferently

well; she danced beautifully; she could chatter French, and was now

struggling with German.

"Spare no expense," said Quinney magnificently.

*IV*

His intimate relations with the growing girl remained constant. He

would make the same remarks, pinch her blooming cheeks, pat her head,

and kiss her smooth forehead.

"How's my pet this morning?"

"Quite all right, daddy, thank you."

"Gettin' on nicely with your lessons?"

"Oh yes."

Once, when she was five years old, he had soundly smacked her. The

sprite had discovered the efficacy of tears as a solvent of

difficulties. Whenever her little will was crossed she howled. She

howled as if she enjoyed it, and her father was shrewd enough to know

this. One morning he caught her up, laid her across his knee, and

spanked her till his hand ached. Next day Posy smiled very sweetly at

him, and said reproachfully:

"Daddy pank a Posy too hard."

But she stopped howling.

He was well pleased when she began to make friends with people like the

Honeybuns. Honeybun was an ubiquitous Socialist who slept at Clapham.

Like Quinney, he had soared. The two men had nothing in common except

this, but it was a bond between them. Mrs. Honeybun had been a

governess in the family of a nobleman. She, too, had soared into an

empyrean of advanced thinkers and workers. Familiarity with the titled

classes had bred contempt for them. In and out of season she denounced

the luxury and indolence of an effete aristocracy. Her own household

was managed abominably. She preached and practised the virtues of an

Edenic diet. Butcher's meat was spoken of scathingly as the source of

most physical and moral infirmities. Apart from this prejudice against

flesh-pots and aristocrats, she was a kindly woman, over-zealous as a

reformer, displaying a too tempestuous petticoat, but burning with

ardour to ameliorate the condition of the poor and oppressed.

She exercised an enormous influence over Posy.

And it is not easy to analyse this influence, which, however well meant,

was not entirely for good. Mrs. Honeybun was clever enough to admit that

there can be no great gain without an appreciable loss. The only thing

that mattered was the satisfaction of being able to affirm that the gain

outweighed the loss. Her favourite hobby, which she rode mercilessly,

was the necessity of Self-expression, the revealing of the Ego, the

essential Spirit loosed from the bondage of the flesh.

Unhappily, to understand the Honeybun philosophy, a mosaic of all

creeds, it became necessary to master the "patter." The word is perhaps

offensive, but it describes exactly the amazing jargon habitually in the

mouths of the exponents of the New Revelation. It is rather dangerous,

for example, to tell a young girl adored by her parents that she must

begin by loving Herself. Properly assimilated, the injunction is

Socratic. Posy accepted it literally. Mrs. Honeybun, of course,

explained what she meant, but at such length, with such divagations and

irrelevancies, that Posy soon became bored. She told herself that

Ethel's mother was a dear, an understanding person, tremendously clever

and modern, a twen-center! She could obey this kind and fluent teacher

with hearty goodwill. It was so delightfully easy to begin with loving

one's Ego.

Susan, it may be imagined, heard too much and too often of the

Honeybuns; and she smiled when she discovered that the meals were

"skimpy." Posy had a healthy appetite not to be satisfied with nut

cutlets or vegetable pie badly cooked and served at odd hours. No

servant stayed long with the Honeybuns, because the remains of cold

"vegy" pie were expected to be consumed at "elevenses." Susan commented

slily on this.

"Your friend, Mrs. Honeybun, seemingly, manages everything and everybody

except her own house and her own servants."

To this Posy fervently replied:

"The spiritual food in that house is simply wonderful!"

Before many weeks had passed Susan was given an opportunity of testing

the truth of this statement. Mrs. Biddlecombe invited Posy to spend a

fortnight in Melchester--a precious fortnight out of the mid-summer

holidays. Ethel, some twenty-four hours later, entreated her friend to

join the Honeybun family at Ramsgate. Much to Susan's dismay Posy

announced her intention of going to Ramsgate.

"It's deadly dull at Melchester, mummie, and just think what a privilege

it is, what an opportunity to spend a fortnight with Ethel's mother."

To her astonishment, Ethel's mother placed a different interpretation

upon the opportunity.

"Of course, you will go to your grandmother, and I shall expect you to

be charming to the old lady. In the nature of things, you can't pay her

many more visits. Make this one a fragrant and imperishable memory.

Express what is your true self by your devotion to an aged and

apparently irritable grandmother."

Posy obeyed, with a result which had special bearing on events duly to

be chronicled. Mrs. Biddlecombe, captivated by the sweetness and

dutifulness of one whom she had hitherto regarded as a spoiled child,

altered her will, leaving everything she possessed to Posy. Susan, she

was aware, would be adequately provided for. Perhaps it tickled an

elementary sense of humour to make Posy independent of a too autocratic

father.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*RUCTIONS*

*I*

If this veracious chronicle were to be considered as a novel written for

a purpose, or even what critics term "a serious contribution to

contemporary literature," it might be necessary to write at greater

length concerning the Honeybun philosophy. Enough, however, has been

said to indicate the startling--startling, that is to say, to a young

mind--contrast between the Quinney practices and the Honeybun precepts.

Substantial meals, admirably cooked, were eaten at regular hours in Soho

Square, and the table talk was as material as the roast and boiled.

Quinney, before his young daughter, exulted honestly in his hard-won

success. The gospel of work was preached in both houses--too

insistently, perhaps--but an Atlantic roared between them.

For some months Posy was shrewd enough to digest the Honeybun teaching

in silence. She prattled away to her mother, well aware that her

girlish confidence would not be repeated to her father. Susan, indeed,

served as a lay figure upon which she could drape new ideas and

confections. Susan was a born listener. In Lavender Gardens the art of

talking was practised by every member of the family simultaneously.

Nobody listened, except Posy, who hoped that the day would soon come

when she might be considered worthy to join the magnificent chorus. For

the moment her mind was expanding. Under her father's tutelage, she was

acquiring a knowledge of beautiful things, masterpieces of handicraft;

in Lavender Gardens, where no lavender grew, beautiful ideas, Utopian

schemes for the regeneration of all woman-kind, were poured unstintingly

into her brain-cells.

So far, so good!

Those of us who clamour for results, who yearn to tabulate and classify

inevitable consequences, will have prepared themselves for ructions.

Quinney was a fighter, a fighter for his own hand. The Honeybuns fought

quite as aggressively on behalf of others. It is a nice point for

moralists to consider whether or not a woman like Mrs. Honeybun is

justified in filling the mind of a young girl with more or less

disturbing theories, thinly disguised as cardinal principles, which must

sooner or later clash seriously with home teaching. Mrs. Honeybun had

no qualms on the subject, being too ardent a propagandist to consider

effects when causes were so dear to her. In her small hall, thick with

dust from the feet of many pilgrims, hung a brilliantly illuminated

text, purple and gold upon vellum:

"LET THERE BE LIGHT!"

She appropriated enthusiastically any text out of the New Testament

which could serve her purpose. Texts from the same source, which might

be used against that purpose, were triumphantly capped by convincing

quotations from the Veda, or the Koran, or the writings of Confucius.

The accomplished lady was armed _cap-a-pie_ with the coagulated wisdom

of the ages.

Posy's first encounter with her father took place, by the luck of

things, at a moment when the little man had just concluded a more than

usually successful deal with a millionaire who collected things he did

not understand. All big dealers have exceptional days and weeks when

Fortune comes to them with both hands full. A clean sweep of many

"gems" had been accomplished--what Quinney called a "mop up." His mind

naturally was concentrated upon filling the gaps in the sanctuary with

other gems of even purer ray serene. Posy confided to Ethel that at

such moments her daddy "swanked." The temptation to make a swanker "sit

up" under the process described in Lavender Gardens as "seeing things in

their true proportion" was irresistible to a young and ardent acolyte.

Posy conceived it to be her duty, her mission, to lead her parents to

the light. Admittedly, they wallowed in outer darkness.

She tackled her father at breakfast, which, as a rule, he gobbled up in

silence, thinking of the day's work ahead. A wiser than she would have

selected the postprandial hour, when Nicotina clouds the air of

controversy with beneficent and soothing vapours. Quinney had mentioned

curtly that he was going to attend a sale at Christopher's. Whereupon

Posy threw this bomb:

"Daddy, dear, when are you going to retire from active business?"

Quinney stared at his daughter. Her intelligent eyes were sparkling; in

her delicately-cut nostrils titillated the dust of battle.

"Retire from--business?"

"Haven't you made enough?"

Susan looked frightened, but she had anticipated a conflict between two

strong wills, and was acutely sensible of her own impotence to prevent

it.

"Ho! Now, what do you call enough, my girl?"

Posy was prepared to answer this. She riposted swiftly:

"Haven't we enough to live on decently, and something to spare for

others?"

"We?" His voice took a sharper inflection. "How much have you laid by,

missie?"

The sharpness and veiled impatience of her tone matched his as she

answered:

"You know what I mean."

"I don't. What I've made is mine--my very own. I can do what I like

with it."

"Oh, father!"

"Oh, father!" He mimicked her cleverly. "Do you have the sauce to sit

there and tell me, your father, that what I've made isn't mine?"

Posy quoted Mrs. Honeybun with overwhelming effect.

"You are a trustee for what you hold, accountable for every penny."

"Accountable--to you?"

He leaned forward, forgetting his bacon, which he liked frizzlingly hot.

"Accountable to Society and God."

"Ho! Then suppose you leave me, my young chick, to account in my own

way to Society and God?"

Posy blushed. Let us not label her rashly as a prig. The nymph Echo

must have repeated silly remarks in her time. Posy said slowly,

speaking with conviction:

"I am part of Society, and I am part of what we call, for want of a

better word, God."

Susan murmured warningly:

"That will do, Posy."

"No, it won't!" shouted Quinney. "We'll have this out here and now.

What d'ye mean? What the devil d'ye mean? Are you dotty? Why do you

spring this on me? What's the game? 'Ave you been a-listening to

blasphemous agitators a-spoutin' rubbish in 'Yde Park?"

"No."

"Then where does she get it from?" He appealed to Susan with frantic

gestures. "You hear her, mother. Where does she get this from? Answer

me!"

"Such talk is in the air, Joe," Susan replied feebly. Explosions

lacerated her ears. She had come to place an inordinate value upon

peace and quiet.

"In the air! By Gum! she's been breathing the wrong air." Inspiration

gripped and shook him. "Gosh! You got this from that dirty Socialist,

Honeybun. Don't deny it! These are his notions. But I never thought

he'd poison your young mind with 'em."

Posy said with dignity:

"Mr. Honeybun is the best man I know. He practises what he preaches; he

lives in and for others. He uses his talents, regardless of his own

comfort and worldly prosperity, to ameliorate the lot of the poor and

oppressed."

Echo again.

"Poor and oppressed! Ameliorate! What a talker! Now, look ye here,

young Posy, I'm going to deal squarely by you. I'm square to the four

winds of Heaven, I am! You and I have got to understand each

other--see? You're as green as the grass, but you do 'ave some of my

brains. I ain't a-goin' to argue with you for one minute. Don't think

it! I've forgotten more than you ever knew. Talk is the cheapest thing

in London, but knaves like Honeybun buy fools with it. Don't you toss

your head! You've made your pore dear mother cry, and you've taken away

father's appetite. A nice morning's work. Now, listen! No more

Honeybunning! You hear me?"

"Everybody in the house can hear you."

"More sauce! You stand up, miss!"

They rose together, confronting each other. Quinney's scrubby red hair

was on end with rage; Posy's small bosom heaved tumultuously. Of late

the girl had taken to the wearing of cheap beads and blouses cut low in

the neck. Ethel had lamentable taste, but, according to her mother, it

was expedient that maidens should work out their own salvation in such

matters without parental interference. Quinney scowled at the beads and

the white, rounded neck.

"Take off that rubbish!"

"Ethel gave them to me."

"Take 'em off quick! Mother, you see to it that she wears respectable

collars!"

Posy removed two strings of large amethystine beads. Quinney took them

and hurled them into the fireplace. Tears rolled down Posy's blooming

cheeks. She was unaccustomed to violence--a primitive weapon not to be

despised by modern man.

"Them beads," said Quinney, who reverted to the diction of his youth

when excited, "is beastly--sinfully beastly! They stand for all that I

despise; they stand for the cheap, trashy talk which you've been

defilin' your mind with. What you need is a good spankin'. Now,

mother, I leave Miss Impudence with you. Mark well what I say. No more

Honeybunning!"

*II*

It is significant that Quinney neglected his business that memorable

morning in the interests of a child who was beginning to believe that

she occupied a back seat in her father's mind. After leaving the

dining-room, he clapped on his hat, and betook himself straightway to

St. James's Square. There was only one man in all London to whom he

could go for honest advice, and fortunately he happened to be in town

for the season.

Lord Mel received him graciously.

Quinney stated his case quietly. During the course of the narrative

Lord Mel smiled more than once, but his sympathies were entirely with

the father, for he had endured, not too patiently, somewhat similar

scenes with his own daughters. Moreover, he hated Honeybun, whom he had

denounced in the Upper Chamber as a mischievous and unscrupulous

demagogue.

Quinney ended upon a high note of interrogation:

"What shall I do with her, my lord?"

Lord Mel considered the question, trying to stand upright in the shoes

of his former tenant. It is a hopeful sign of the times that such

magnates do descend from their pedestals, and attempt, with a certain

measure of success, to see eye to eye with the groundlings.

"I prescribe a change of diet, my dear fellow. We must both face the

disconcerting fact that girls to-day need special treatment. Mrs.

Honeybun is one of the Shrieking Sisterhood. I have heard her

shriek--she does it effectively. Noise appeals to the very young. I

suggest removing Posy from Orchard Street, and sending her to a

carefully conducted boarding school, where plenty of fresh air and

exercise will soon blow these ideas out of her pretty head. There are

dozens of such schools scattered along our south coast."

"Send her away from me and her mother?"

"Drastic, I admit, but you have put it admirably. 'No more

Honeybunning!' Keep her in London, and she may Honeybun on the sly.

Will you entrust this little matter of finding a suitable school to me?"

"Your lordship is a real friend."

"I will speak to my lady."

"Expense don't matter," said Quinney earnestly. "I want my daughter to

have the best, because, my lord, as a young feller, I had the worst. No

education at all! Posy's a wonderful talker! She'd have downed me this

morning if I'd let her. She talks like--like----"

"Like Honeybun, eh?"

"If I wasn't sittin' in your lordship's library, I should damn that

dirty dog!"

"Such fellows thrive on abuse. That is their weapon. We must use

others--ridicule, for example. How old is your girl?"

"Nearly sixteen."

"Good! You have nipped a cankered bud in time. You shall hear from me

within twenty-four hours, Let me show you an interesting bit of Crown

Derby _bisque_." He paused, and added derisively: "You know, Quinney,

there are moments when my things appeal to me tremendously. Persons are

disappointing, but every day I discover fresh beauties in my china

cabinets."

"Same here," said Quinney, with enthusiasm.

*III*

Accordingly, Posy was dispatched to a boarding school at Bexhill-on-Sea,

kept by two gentlewomen of the right sort, sensible, up-to-date,

highly-trained teachers, who ruled well and wisely over some twenty

girls, the daughters, for the most part, of hard-working, professional

men. Here we will leave Posy in good company. She was feeling sore and

humiliated after an unconditional surrender; but her sense of impotence

soon passed away. She loved her whimsical father and desired to please

him, although she writhed--as he had writhed--under the heel of parental

discipline. She began to study with assiduity, and was highly

commended.

*IV*

Meanwhile, Susan and Quinney were left alone for the first time since

Posy's birth. Susan rejoiced in secret. She had her Joe to herself.

Posy was in the habit of dusting the more valuable bits of china in the

sanctuary, and cleaning the old glass. Susan undertook these small

duties, and pottered in and out of the sanctuary at all hours. Quinney

threw crumbs of talk to her, but he refused emphatically her timid

request to serve him once more as a saleswoman. At his wish, she rarely

entered the shop below. James Miggott was in charge of that. Quinney

was engrossed with the buying and selling of "stuff"; he attended to an

immense correspondence, writing all his letters in the sanctuary, where

he could pause from his labours to suck fresh energy from the

contemplation of his treasures. The prices he paid for some of them

terrified Susan, although she knew that he made few mistakes and immense

profits. She remarked that his reluctance to part with the finest

specimens had become almost a monomania. There was a lacquer cabinet; in

particular, standing upon a richly gilded Charles the Second stand.

Quinney had paid eight hundred pounds for it, and he had been offered a

thousand guineas within six months. He confessed to Susan that he

couldn't live without it. The cabinet was flanked by an incised lacquer

screen, a miracle of Chinese workmanship. He refused a handsome profit

on that. Susan asked herself:

"Does he worship these false gods? Would he miss that cabinet more than

he would miss me?"

She noticed, too, that he was overworked. During his many absences from

home letters would accumulate. To answer them he rose earlier and went

to bed later, deaf to her remonstrance. He promised to engage a typist

and stenographer--some day.

Nevertheless, this was a pleasant time, but it lasted only a few months.

Mrs. Biddlecombe took to her bed again. Susan was summoned to

Melchester. The old lady was really dying, but she took her time about

it. Susan ministered to her till the end.

After the funeral, when she returned to Soho Square, a surprise awaited

her. Quinney had fulfilled his promise. In the sanctuary, at a

beautiful Carlton desk, sat Miss Mabel Dredge, a young and attractive

woman, the typist and stenographer. Poor Susan experienced tearing pangs

of jealousy when she beheld her, but Quinney's treatment of the stranger

was reassuring. Obviously, he regarded Miss Dredge as a machine.

And his unaffected delight over Susan's return home was positively

rejuvenating.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*JAMES MIGGOTT*

*I*

In common with other great men who have achieved success, Quinney was

endowed with a Napoleonic faculty of picking the right men to serve him.

Having done so, he treated them generously, so that they remained in his

service, loath to risk a change for the worse. He paid good wages, and

was complaisant in the matter of holidays.

James Miggott had been his most fortunate discovery. James was "brainy"

(we quote Quinney), ambitious, healthy, and an artist in his line: the

repairing of valuable old furniture. Also he was good-looking, which

counted with his employer. A few weeks after joining the establishment

it had been arranged that he should sleep in a comfortable room in the

basement, and take his meals at a restaurant in Old Compton Street.

During his provincial circuits Quinney liked to know that a man was in

charge of the house at night. James's habits, apparently, were as

regular as his features.

By this time he had come to be regarded as foreman. Bit by bit he had

won Quinney's entire confidence. The master talked to the man more

freely than he talked to Susan about everything connected with his

business. James listened attentively, made occasionally some happy

suggestion, and betrayed no signs of a swollen head. A natural

inflation might have been expected. Quinney's eyes failed to detect it.

Moreover, Susan liked him, and respected him. He attended Divine service

on Sundays; he ate and drank in moderation; he was scrupulously neat in

appearance; he had received a sound education, and expressed himself

well in good English. Truly a paragon!

Quinney had secured Miss Mabel Dredge after his own fashion. Hitherto

his typewriting had been done by a firm which employed a score of

typists. The head of that firm happened to be a lady of great

intelligence and energy, the widow of a stockbroker who had died

bankrupt. Quinney knew about her, liked and admired her, and told her

so in his whimsical way. She liked and respected Quinney. Also, by an

odd coincidence, Mrs. Frankland had begun her struggle for existence in

London at the time when Quinney left Melchester. They had compared

notes; each had undergone thwackings. When Mrs. Frankland began to make

money she spent most of it at Quinneys'. Amongst other bits, she had

bought a spinet--cheap. Accordingly, when Quinney entreated her to find

a competent young woman, she generously offered him the pick of her

establishment.

Mabel Dredge went with alacrity, glad to escape from a small table in a

large room, not too well ventilated. She intended, from the first, to

give satisfaction, to "hold down" the new job. She was tall and dark,

with a clear, colourless skin, and a rather full-lipped mouth, which

indicated appreciation of the good things in life. Mrs. Frankland had

said to her:

"You will earn a bigger salary, Mabel, and Mr. Quinney won't make love

to you."

Mabel Dredge smiled pensively. She could take care of herself, and she

had no reason to suppose that she was susceptible. Men had made love to

her, but they were the wrong men. She had refused kind invitations to

lunch or dine at smart restaurants. When she walked home after the day's

work she encountered smiles upon the faces of well-dressed loafers. No

answering smile on her lips encouraged these dear-stalkers to address

her. But, deep down in her heart, was a joyous and thrilling conviction

that she was desirable. The male passers-by who did not smile aroused

unhappy qualms. Was she losing her looks? Was she growing old? Could

it be possible that she might die an old maid?

Upon the morning when she appeared in Soho Square Quinney sent for

James. He said abruptly:

"James Miggott will show you round. If you want to know anything, go to

him. Don't ask me foolish questions, because that makes me lose my

hair; and I ain't got any to lose that way. See?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Dessay he'll tell you where you can get a plate of roast beef in the

middle of the day, between one and two. You have an hour off then.

What did Mrs. Frankland allow you?"

"Forty minutes."

"Just so. You'll find me easy to get along with, if you do your duty.

James will tell you that I'm a remarkable man. I call him James, and I

shall call you Mabel. It saves time, and time's money. You can scoot

off with James."

The pair disappeared. Quinney's eyes twinkled. He was thinking of

Susan, and recalling that memorable afternoon when he kissed her for the

first time behind the parlour-door in Laburnum Row.

*II*

We have mentioned James Miggott's almost magical powers of transforming

eighteenth-century spinets into desks and dressing-tables. These useful

and ornamental pieces of furniture were sold as converted spinets, and

they commanded a handsome price because the transformation was achieved

with such consummate art. Even experts were at a loss to point out the

difference between what was originally old and what had been added.

James had access to Quinney's collection of mahogany--the broken chairs,

tables, beds, doors, and bureaux which the little man had bought for a

song of sixpence before mahogany leapt again into fashion. The

collection had begun in Melchester, and Quinney was always adding to it.

In it might be found exquisitely carved splats and rails and

ball-and-claw legs, many of them by the hand of the great

craftsmen--Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and Adam. One cellar and

two attics were full of these interesting relics.

Shortly after James's appearance in Soho Square Quinney succumbed to the

temptation of doctoring "cripples," which besets most honest dealers in

antique furniture. He had, as we know, pledged himself not to sell

faked specimens of china or faked old oak, except as such. And he had

stuck to the strict letter of this promise, thereby securing many

customers, and winning their confidence. It had paid him to be honest.

With sorrowful reluctance we must give some account of his divagations

from the straight and narrow way.

The temptation assailed Quinney with especial virulence, because

"cripples" of high degree appealed to him quite as strongly as, let us

say, a desperately injured sprig of nobility, battered to bits in a

motor accident, may appeal to the skill and patience of a famous

surgeon. When Quinney found a genuine Chippendale chair _in articulo

mortis_, he could sit down and weep beside it. To restore it to health

and beauty became a labour of love, almost a duty. He had not, of

course, the technical skill for such work; and he had not found any

cabinet-maker who was absolutely the equal of the Minihy man till he

discovered James Miggott. The first important task assigned to James

was the mending of an elaborately carved Chippendale settee, a museum

piece. James threw his heart and his head into the job; and, within the

year, that settee was sold at Christopher's, after examination by

experts, as an untouched and perfect specimen. Quinney was no party to

this fraud, for the settee had never belonged to him, but it opened his

eyes to the possibilities of patching "cripples." And every week he was

being offered these "cripples." The finest specimens, by the best

craftsmen, are rare; the full sets of eight incomparable chairs, for

instance, come but seldom into the open market. But the "cripples" may

be found in any cottage in the kingdom, fallen from the high estate of

some stately saloon to the attic of a servant.

Tom Tomlin was one of the very few who saw the Chippendale settee after

James had restored it. Within a few days he attempted to lure the young

man from Soho Square, but James refused an offer of a larger salary, and

elected to stay with Quinney. Possibly he mistrusted Tomlin, whose

general appearance was far from prepossessing. Tomlin, however, was not

easily baffled. He seized an early opportunity of speaking privately to

Quinney.

"Joe," he said, "this young feller is the goods. He can do the trick."

"Do what trick?"

Tomlin winked.

"Any trick, I take it, known to our trade. The very finest faker of old

furniture I ever came across. Now, as between man and man, are you going

to make a right and proper use of him?"

"What d'ye mean, Tom?"

"Tchah! You know well enough what I mean. Why beat about the bush with

an old friend? Are you going to turn this young man loose amongst that

old stuff you've collected?"

Quinney laughed, shaking his head.

"Am I going to let James Miggott fake up all that old stuff? No, by

Gum! No!"

"But, damn it! Why not?"

"Several reasons. One'll do. I've sworn solemn not to sell fakes

unless they're labelled as such."

"Of all the silly rot----"

"There it is."

Tomlin went away, but he returned next day, and asked for a glass of

brown sherry. Quinney had one, too.

"I've a proposition to make," said Tomlin. "You've got a small gold mine

in this Miggott, but you don't mean to work him properly. Well, let me

do it."

"How?"

"Suppose I send you 'cripples' to be mended. Any objections to that?"

"None."

"This young Miggott mends 'em, and puts in his best licks on 'em too.

Then you send 'em back to me."

"That all?"

Tomlin winked.

"Do you want to know any more? Is it your business to inquire what

becomes of the stuff after you've doctored it? And, mind you, I shall

pay high for the doctorin'. You leave that to me. You won't be

disappointed with my cheques."

Let it be remembered, although we hold no brief for Quinney, that this

subtle temptation assailed him shortly after his bludgeonings, when he

was tingling with impatience to "get even" with the Londoners who had

"downed" him.

In fine, he accepted Tomlin's offer.

Quinney has since confessed that at first he was very uneasy, honesty

having become a pleasant and profitable habit. There were moments when

he envied moral idiots like Tomlin, stout, smiling, red-faced sinners,

who positively wallowed and gloried in sinfulness. Tomlin pursued

pleasure upon any and every path. He went racing, attended football

matches, was a patron of the Drama and the Ring, ate and drank

immoderately, made no pretence of being faithful to Mrs. Tomlin, or

honest with the majority of his customers. His amazing knowledge of

Oriental porcelain had given him an international reputation. He never

attempted to deceive the experts, and, in consequence, was quoted as a

high authority in such papers as _The Collector_ and _Curios_. He knew

exactly what his customers needed, and was the cleverest salesman in the

kingdom. Less successful dealers affirmed that the devil took especial

care of Tom Tomlin.

*III*

Quinney had no reason to complain of Tomlin's cheques. He knew that his

old friend was being scrupulously square, and sharing big profits with

him. Tomlin had customers from the Argentine, from the Brazils, from all

parts of the earth where fortunes are made and spent swiftly. The

"cripples" disappeared mysteriously, and were never heard of again. By

this time Tomlin had moved to his famous premises in Bond Street. He

had not achieved the position of Mr. Lark, because he lacked that great

man's education and polish, but he was quite the equal of Mr. Bundy.

It is important to mention that Tomlin sent very few cripples to Soho

Square. Nor were they delivered by his vans. They arrived unexpectedly

from provincial towns; they were invariably authentic specimens, the

finest "stuff." No understrapper beheld them. James carried them

tenderly to his operating theatre, whence they emerged pale of

complexion, but sound in limb. Daily massage followed, innumerable

rubbings. Then Tomlin would drop in, and nudge Quinney, and chuckle.

The two dealers would pull out their glasses and examine the patient

with meticulous zeal. James would watch them with a slightly derisive

smile upon his handsome face. At the end of his three years' engagement

Quinney raised his salary to three pounds a week. The little man

expected an extravagant expression of gratitude, but he didn't get it.

At times James's smile puzzled him.

*IV*

Posy remained at Bexhill-on-Sea till she was eighteen. Her friendship

for the Honeybuns had been slowly extinguished. Mrs. Honeybun, who

mortified everything in her thin body except pride, refused peremptorily

to see Posy against the expressed wish of her father. Posy wrote to

Ethel long screeds answered with enthusiasm at first and then

perfunctorily. At the end of the year the girls drifted apart.

Posy, however, made other friends. When she came home for her first

holidays, Quinney and Susan conspired together to make things pleasant

for her. She had plenty of pocket money. Susan and she went to many

plays, many concerts, all the good shows. Quinney rubbed his hands and

chuckled, but he declined to accompany them.

The two years of school passed with astonishing swiftness; and the

improvement to Posy quickened a lively gratitude in Quinney to Lord Mel.

She developed into a charming young woman, irresponsible as yet, but a

joyous creature, easy to please and be pleased. Quinney was delighted

with her. He told her solemnly:

"My poppet, you're a perfect lady; yes, you are."

Posy went into peals of laughter.

"Daddy, how funny you are!"

This talk took place upon the day that Posy said good-bye to her

school-fellows, and returned home as a more or less finished product of

the boarding-school system.

"Funny? Me? I don't feel funny, my pretty, when I look at you. I feel

proud. One way and t'other I suppose you've cost me nigh upon four

thousand pounds!"

"Daddy, dear! Not as much as that, surely?"

Quinney cocked his head at a sharp angle, while he computed certain

sums.

"I figure it out in this way," he said slowly. "In hard cash you stand

me in about fifteen hundred spread over the last ten years. Now, if I'd

stuffed that amount into Waterford glass, I could have cleaned up five

thousand at least. See?"

"I see," said Posy, and laughed again.

"The question now is," continued Quinney, absorbed in admiration of her

delicate colouring, "what the 'ell am I going to do with such a fancy

piece?"

"Father!" exclaimed Susan. "Do please try to remember that you're not

talking to Mr. Tomlin."

"When I feel strongly," replied Quinney simply, "I just have to use

strong language. Posy has come home to what?"

"She's come home, Joe. That's enough. Why bother about anything else?"

"Because I'm the bothering sort, old dear--that's why. I look ahead. I

count my chickens before they're hatched."

Susan said slily:

"Yes, you made sure that this chicken was going to be hatched a boy."

The three laughed. It was a pleasant moment of compensation for long

years of anxiety and toil. Each had worked for it. Posy had submitted,

not without kickings and prickings, to strict discipline; Quinney, from

the child's birth, had determined that the stream must rise higher than

its source; Susan, serenely hopeful about the future, had worried

unceasingly over the present, concerned about petty ailments, the

putting on and off of suitable under-linen, and so forth.

"Don't bother about me, daddy; I'm all right."

"By Gum, you are! That's why I bother. In my experience it's the right

bits that get smashed!"

*V*

Perhaps nobody was more surprised at the change in Posy than James

Miggott. Hitherto the young lady, home for the holidays, had ignored

him, not purposely--she was too kindhearted for that--but with a genuine

unconsciousness of giving offence. He was part and parcel of what she

least liked in her father's house, the shop. Not for an instant was she

ashamed of being the daughter of a dealer in antiques, who owned a shop;

what exasperated her was the conviction that the shop owned him, that he

had become the slave of his business. The Honeybuns had rubbed into her

plastic mind that the unpardonable sin, the sin against the Holy Ghost,

the root-cause of ruin to nations and individuals, began and ended with

the lust of accumulating material things. Nothing moved Mrs. Honeybun to

more fervent and eloquent speech than the text: "Lay not up treasures

upon earth!" At Bexhill-on-Sea Posy had heard this same injunction upon

the lips of a local Chrysostom, to whom she listened enthusiastically

every Sunday morning. The text had a personal application, because she

never heard it, or a variant on it, without thinking of the sanctuary

and her father's "gems," apostrophized by Susan as "sticks and stones."

Posy admired beautiful things, but if they were very costly she seemed

to have a curious fear of them. Before she was born, Susan had

experienced strongly the same fear of her Joe's idols.

She was, however, discreet enough to conceal this from her father. He

took her to Christopher's, where a miraculous piece of reticulated K'ang

He was on exhibition, prior to sale. It was an incense-box decorated

with figures of the eight Immortals in brilliant enamels.

Metaphorically, Quinney went down on his knees before it. Next day he

told Posy that it had fetched seven thousand guineas! He stared at her

sharply, because she showed no enthusiasm.

James Miggott beheld her as Aphrodite fresh from the sea. Poor Mabel

Dredge appeared sallow beside her, tired and spent after a hot July.

Posy glowed. She was not insensible to the homage of admiring glances,

and James, by the luck of things, happened to be the first good-looking

man with whom she was thrown into intimate contact. Propinquity! What

follies are committed in thy company!

She wondered why James's handsome face and manly figure had never

impressed her before. She spoke to Susan about him with nonchalant

vivacity:

"James is a power in this house."

"Yes, dear; your father thinks the world of him. He is a very good young

man."

"Good? Now what do you mean by that?"

"Gracious! I hope you haven't inherited father's trick of asking

questions."

"Is James pious?"

"Pious? He goes to church; he does his duty; he is to be trusted; he's

a hard worker, and from what your father tells me, a real artist."

"An artist? Does he work for the love of his work?"

"I think he does."

Then and there Posy decided to cultivate James Miggott. He had excited

the curiosity of an intelligent maiden. She found herself wondering

what he did with himself when his work was done. Did he read? Had he

any real friends? Was Miss Dredge a friend of his? What were his

ambitions? The more she thought of him, the sorrier she became for him.

Possibly he perceived this. Upon the rare occasions when they met, he

was careful to assume a captivating air of melancholy, preserving

conscientiously the right distance between them, scrupulously polite but

somewhat indifferent to her advances, thereby piquing her to bolder

efforts to bridge the distance. A woman of experience might have been

justified in assuming that a man who could play so careful a game was no

tyro at it.

This preliminary sparring lasted nearly two months.

*CHAPTER XV*

*AT WEYMOUTH*

*I*

Only lookers-on at the human comedy can be consistently philosophical.

The drama is too exciting, too distracting to the players. When a man

is chasing his hat along a gusty thoroughfare, he takes little heed of

the headgear of others. Till now Posy's outlook had been girlishly

critical. Her ideas and ideals were coloured or discoloured by the

persons with whom she came in contact, but she was modest and sensible

enough to realize that her experience of the big things of life was

negligible. She had never suffered sharp pain either of mind or body.

The death of her grandmother affected her subjectively. A familiar

figure had been removed from her small circle. A landmark had vanished

for ever. It was awful to reflect that her own mother might have been

taken. She remembered an incident at school, the summoning of a girl

about her own age, a chum, to the presence of the headmistress. The

girl, to the wonder of all, had not returned to the class-room, but Posy

saw her an hour later putting her things together for a long journey.

The girl's face had changed terribly. In answer to the first eager

question, she had said, drearily: "My mother is dead."

Posy burst into tears; the girl's eyes were dry. Then Posy stammered

out: "Did you love her very much?" and the other laughed, actually

laughed, as she replied: "Love her? She was all I had in the world!"

This glimpse of a grief beyond tears was a unique experience, something

which transcended imagination, and something, therefore, not fully

absorbed. For many nights Posy was haunted by the vision of that white,

drawn face, with its hungry, despairing expression; then it slowly faded

away. By this time, also, she had almost forgotten the Honeybun stories

of the submerged tenth. Bexhill breezes had blown them out of her mind.

Somewhere in festering slums and alleys, men and women and children were

fighting desperately against disease, poverty, and vice. Teachers had

pointed out, with kindly common sense, that it would be morbid and

futile to allow the mind to dwell upon conditions which, for the moment,

a schoolgirl was powerless to ameliorate. With relief, Posy had purged

her thoughts of such horrors.

And now her father raised the question--What was to be done with this

fancy piece?

Posy answered that question after her own fashion. The Chrysostom

aforesaid--excellent, practical parson!--had indicated a task. Under

his teaching and preaching Posy had returned gladly enough to the fold

of the Church of England. She no longer thought of Omnipotence as a

vague essence permeating the universe. The Deity had become personal.

Chrysostom, however, was too sensible a man to fill the minds of

schoolgirls with doctrinal problems. He preached practical Christianity

with sincerity and eloquence. The nail he hammered home into youthful

pates was this: "Make the world a pleasanter place for others, and you

will find it more pleasant for yourselves." The girls at Posy's school

indulged in mild chaff over this dictum. Sweet seventeen admonished

blushing sixteen to "Be a sunbeam!" Another catchword in frequent use

was: "Save a smile for mother!"

Fired by the conviction that the sunbeam business paid handsome

dividends, Posy returned to Soho Square. She intended to brighten the

lives of everybody in the house, including the tweenie. That, for the

moment, was to be her "job." She described the process as "binging 'em

up."

And the member of her father's household who seemed to be most in need

of "binging" happened to be James Miggott.

*II*

In August--she had left school for good at the end of the summer

term--Posy and her mother went to Weymouth. Quinney did not accompany

them. He said, jocularly, that he got all the change he needed

travelling about the kingdom in search of "stuff." Business being at a

low ebb in August, he selected that month for a general stocktaking,

balancing of accounts, and the planning of an active autumn campaign.

Mabel Dredge remained with him, a most capable assistant; James Miggott

was told that he might spend three weeks wherever he pleased.

It will never be known whether or not James knew that Susan and Posy

were going to Weymouth. We do know that Posy met James on the pier, and

was much struck by his gentlemanly appearance. It is possible that the

young man planned this meeting; it is quite impossible to infer as much

from what passed between them. James raised a neat straw hat, and was

strolling on, when Posy waved her parasol.

"Are you thinking of cutting me?" she asked, holding out her hand.

"What an extraordinary coincidence your being here?"

"Is it?" asked James quietly. "I have been to Weymouth before, have

you?"

"No; this is our first visit. Did father tell you we were coming?"

"No." He laughed derisively, as he continued, "Mr. Quinney does not

talk to me about you. I can imagine that he might--er--object----"

He paused significantly.

"Object to what?"

"To this. I know my place, Miss Quinney."

He was as humble as Uriah Heep, but more prepossessing in appearance.

The sun and wind had tanned his cheeks, his brown hair curled crisply

beneath the brim of his smart hat. He wore white shoes and quiet grey

"flannels.

"Now that you are here," said Posy, "let us sit down and listen to the

band. Mother is writing to father. She writes every day, dear thing!

She will turn up presently."

Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The band played a popular

waltz; upon the beach below people were bathing; the sea displayed the

many twinkling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets.

"Jolly, isn't it?" said Posy.

"Very."

"But you don't look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never do look very jolly.

And I have wondered--why."

She looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, anxious to put

him at ease, anxious also to peer beneath an impassive surface, to find

out "things" concerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently,

had not brought with it a very delirious happiness.

"Shall I tell you?" he asked, in a voice that trembled oddly. "Shall I

let myself go for once? Ought I?"

Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was not in sight. She

might not appear for half an hour.

"Yes; please tell me."

He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable might hazard the

conjecture that he had told it before, perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By

hinting at this we have somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader,

who must bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to entertain

such suspicions.

"I don't look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don't feel jolly. Perhaps

you think that a man ought to disguise his feelings when he's with a

charming young lady. Well, I can't. I'm too honest. It was a shock

just now meeting you, because you stand for everything I want and can't

get."

The inflections of his voice far more than the actual words challenged

her interest. Obviously, he was capable of feeling, and she had deemed

him cold. He continued more calmly, subtly conveying to her the

impression that he was suppressing his emotions on her account.

"I am your father's foreman, and I earn three pounds a week. Lark and

Bundy, Tomlin, any of the big dealers would pay me five pounds a week,

but I can't leave Soho Square."

Posy said hastily:

"I'm sure father couldn't spare you."

"I am useful to him. I'm not such a fool as to underrate my services.

He is generous. He will raise my salary, but I shall remain downstairs.

I repeat, I know my place. I am fully aware that I ought not to be

talking to you like this. Mr. Quinney would be angry."

"Really, that is absurd."

"Do you know your father as well as I know him?"

She evaded his eyes.

"Perhaps not, but there's nothing of the snob about daddy; he never

pretends to be better than he is. He rose from the ranks, and he's

proud of it. I'm proud of it. I admire men who rise. I have no use for

slackers who owe everything to others. Why shouldn't you rise higher

than father? You are better educated and a greater artist."

"What! You have thought of me as an artist?"

"I have been told that you are an artist. Father says so, and Mr.

Tomlin. It interested me enormously. You love your work for your work's

sake. That is fine. And yet you tell me that you are unhappy, that it

gives you a shock to meet me, because I stand for everything you want

and can't get. What do you want?"

"Freedom for one thing."

"Mustn't freedom be earned? I have been taught so. You are serving, I

suppose, your apprenticeship. The work you love may be a small part of

that, and the rest drudgery. I used to loathe playing scales, but I

tried to be jolly."

"Your position is assured."

"If you're the right sort, yours will be."

"I shall be jolly when it is. You ought to know all the truth, Miss

Quinney, if my stupid affairs don't bore you too utterly?

"Can't you see how interested I am?"

"You are divinely kind. I can't express what your sympathy means to me.

Well, you spoke of my rising. That's just where the shoe pinches. I

have not risen; I have fallen."

"Fallen from--what?"

"My people were gentlepeople."

"Oh!"

She drew in her breath sharply. James could see that his last shaft had

transfixed her. He was very clever, and he guessed exactly how she felt

about gentlepeople, using the word in its widest sense. Quinney's money

had made her a gentlewoman.

"My father was an officer in the Army." (It was true that James's

father had once held a second lieutenant's commission in the Militia.)

"My mother was the daughter of a West Country parson. They died when I

was a boy. There was practically nothing for me. I was educated at a

charitable institution. Charity apprenticed me to a cabinet-maker at

Exeter. Charity nearly buried me--twice. I have known what it is, Miss

Quinney, to be without food, and without money, and to wake morning

after morning wishing that I had died in the night!"

*III*

This was the part of the tale which James told so fluently. Admittedly,

that last long sentence smacked of rhetorical effect. It could hardly

have been entirely impromptu. Nevertheless, it rolled Posy in the dust.

She became horribly conscious of rushing in where angels might fear to

tread. Indeed, that hackneyed quotation occurred to her. She

ejaculated, "Oh!" for the second time, and blushed piteously. James

rose to his feet. He spoke politely:

"I see that I have distressed you, and I am very sorry; but you asked

me."

"I, too, am sorry," said Posy earnestly. "I am most awfully sorry. I

wish I could say the right thing, but I feel rather a fool."

"The right thing for me to say, Miss Quinney, is good-bye. I shall go

to Lulworth this afternoon."

"But why should you go? I don't understand. Are you going on our

account?"

"On my own."

Another transfixing shaft. Posy was too honest to misinterpret this

calm statement. Secretly she was thrilled by it; delicious shivers

crept up and down her spine. For the first time she became supremely

conscious of her power over a man. At that moment she turned from a

jolly girl into a woman. It touched her to fine issues. In a low,

tremulous voice she faltered:

"You know best."

James raised his hat and went.

*IV*

Half an hour later Susan had the story, with reserves, from Posy's lips.

Are we to blame the girl because she left out the climax? At any rate,

her conscience remained clear. She could not betray a sacred

confidence.

Susan was not vastly interested, as a wiser mother might have been. She

accepted James's departure with a certain smug satisfaction which

exasperated her daughter. She was sure that father would approve. Posy

said sharply:

"But, mummie, daddy couldn't object to our being decently civil to Mr.

Miggott?"

"He might."

"But why--why?"

"Father is so ambitious for you, child. Any gallivanting about with his

foreman----"

"Gallivanting! Who spoke of gallivanting? Mr. Miggott is a gentleman.

You like him and respect him. So do I. The word 'gallivanting' sounds

so housemaidy, so merry-go-roundy."

"Oh, well, my dear, I'm glad the young man has gone, that's all."

The subject remained closed for the rest of the Weymouth visit. Mother

and daughter returned to London a month later. James was at work

downstairs. When Posy and he met, she could hardly believe that he was

the same James who had sat beside her on the pier. His dignified

salutation, "Good-afternoon, Miss Quinney!" seemed ludicrously

inadequate, but what else could the poor fellow have said? Posy could

find no answer to this insistent question, and yet she had expected a

different greeting. He had not offered to shake hands, nor had she.

Ought she to have held out her hand first? Was he offended because she

hadn't? When she woke next morning she wondered whether James was

wishing that he had died in the night. The determination to brighten his

life, within reasonable limits, imposed itself upon her while she was

dressing. More, it inspired her to choose a clean, lilac-coloured

frock, which became her admirably. Putting up her hair she was careful

to arrange it artistically, because an artist might look at it with

deep-set, melancholy eyes. If you had told her that she was romantic

she would have been furious.

At breakfast Quinney said briskly:

"I've a job for you, my girl."

"Certainly, daddy."

"I'm going to turn over to you the dusting of my china, and the cleaning

of the Waterford glass. You used to do it nicely before you went to

boarding-school."

"I shall just love it."

Quinney was much gratified. Posy, he reflected, was his own dear

daughter; no nonsense about her, no highfalutin airs and graces, first

and last a perfect lady. He smacked his lips with satisfaction.

"You must teach me values, daddy."

"By Gum, I will. You'll learn, too, mighty quick. Did the girls at your

school ever throw it up to you that you was a tradesman's daughter?"

"No, I told them that you were the honestest dealer in England."

"So I am, my pretty, the honestest in the world. It pays to be honest."

"That's not why you're honest?"

"No, missie, it ain't. I swore solemn never to sell fakes except as

such the night you was born."

"What a funny time to choose!"

Susan made a sign to him, but he went on:

"Funny? Never could make out why people use that word in such a silly

way. Funny? Your dear mother nearly died the night you came to us."

Susan interfered nervously.

"Now, Joe, you ain't going into that, are you?"

"Yes, I am. Why not? It's high time, speakin' of values, that young

Posy should know just what she cost us. I say it's part of her

education, the part she couldn't learn at school. She's eighteen. She

knows, I take it, that she didn't drop from heaven into the middle of a

gooseberry bush?"

At this Susan, not Posy, blushed. It was the girl who said, calmly:

"You are quite right, father. I ought to know what I've cost both of

you." She looked at her mother tenderly, and spoke in a softer voice:

"Is it true that you nearly died?"

"Yes."

"And so did I," said Quinney.

Posy's eyes filled with tears.

"I shall always remember that," she murmured.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*A BUSINESS PROPOSITION*

*I*

"The covers are perfectly beautiful," said Quinney, "the very finest

needlework, all of 'em worked by the same hand, and all of 'em different

in pattern."

He was staring at a set of eight chairs which had arrived that morning

from a town in Essex. James had just unpacked them, and was regarding

them gloomily, for he cared nothing about needlework covers, and the

chairs themselves were of walnut, very old, very worm-eaten, and carved

by a prentice hand. He said so presently. Quinney snorted.

"Do you think, my lad, I'd ask you to waste your time and talents

tinkering with those? Rip off the covers carefully, and put them aside.

Save the nails and the backing. Don't show 'em to anybody. They need

cleaning, but I shan't send 'em to a reg'lar cleaner's. You can try

your hand on 'em."

"Not much in my line," said James.

"Liver out o' whack this morning?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well, try to look more cheerful. It pays."

He scuttled off, chuckling to himself, and thinking what fools other

dealers were, for these chairs had been bought cheap from a dealer who,

like James Miggott, knew nothing of the value of eighteenth-century

needlework.

By the luck of things, that same morning Tom Tomlin telephoned from Bond

Street, asking him to drop in at his earliest convenience. Quinney went

at once, well aware that procrastination loses many a bit of business.

He found his friend in much excitement.

"Got something to show you," said Tomlin.

"Got something to show _you_," retorted Quinney.

"What?"

"The finest set of old needlework chair-covers I've seen for many a long

day."

Tomlin exhibited enthusiasm.

"That beats the band!" he exclaimed. "Looks as if it was fairly meant."

"What d'ye mean, Tom?"

"You come along with me, and see."

Quinney followed him, conscious of a rising excitement, for Tomlin

reserved enthusiasm for memorable occasions. The pair walked together

down Bond Street and into Oxford Street. In a few minutes they were

passing Lark and Bundy's establishment. Tomlin paused at the great

plate-glass window.

"Look at them chairs, Joe."

Quinney flattened his nose against the glass, being slightly

short-sighted. The chairs were magnificent.

"Nice lot--hey?"

"And a nice price Bundy paid for 'em. You wasn't at Christopher's the

day before yesterday?"

"By Gum! Tom, you don't mean to say that those are the Pevensey

chairs?"

"Yes, bang out of Pevensey Court, sold with Chippendale's receipt for

'em. Sixteen hundred guineas, my tulip!"

They went on in silence. Presently Quinney growled out: "It's a cruel

price."

"They're the goods, Joe. Hall-marked! Bundy can place 'em at a big

profit with Dupont Jordan. Did you notice the carving?"

"Did I? Never saw a finer set, never!"

They walked on towards the Circus, and presently turned sharp to the

right. By this time they were approaching Soho Square.

"Come out of our way a bit, haven't we?"

Tomlin replied solemnly. "I wanted you to have a squint at those chairs

first. Here we are."

They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open door, and ascended a

rickety, evil-smelling staircase. Tomlin pulled a key from his pocket,

unlocked a door upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a

biggish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quinney had been

here before. It was one of Tomlin's many small warehouses. The centre

of the floor had been cleared, and in this cleared space stood four

chairs.

"Thunder and Mars!"

"Thought you'd be surprised," muttered Tomlin, pulling up a dirty blind.

The four chairs were carved like the chairs from Pevensey Court. They

had horsehair seats much dilapidated, and the mahogany had been

mercilessly treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was not

a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the same master hand which

had designed and executed the set in Lark and Bundy's window.

"Where are the other four?" asked Quinney, on his knees before the

chairs, running his hands over them, caressing them with tender touches.

"Where? Oh, where?" said Tomlin. Then he spoke curtly and to the

point:

"Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound for 'em."

"You do have the devil's own luck, Tom."

"Not so fast. I can't find out anything about them. If I tried to sell

'em, as they are, Lark would see to it that fellows like Pressland

crabbed 'em, as he did that commode o' yours."

Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that unhappy transaction was

now known to him. He knew where the commode was, and what price had

been paid for it.

"With luck," continued Tomlin thoughtfully, "I might sell these chairs

for fifty apiece. One is an armchair. Your covers would go nicely on

'em, eh?"

"By Gum, the very thing."

"And you've eight covers?"

"Eight of the best."

Tomlin stared hard at the little man.

"Let's have a look at the covers," he said slowly.

They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quinney's astonishment he

found Posy in James's room. Her presence, however, was easily and

glibly explained. James, obeying orders, had asked his employer's

daughter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him some. That

was all. Quinney frowned, and signified with a gesture that Posy could

"scoot." She did so, after exchanging greetings with Tomlin.

"Dev'lish fine gal!" said Tomlin. "Glad to see she's not above helpin'

in the business."

"Don't want her help!" growled Quinney. He turned savagely to James:

"Didn't I tell you not to show them covers to nobody?"

"Sorry," replied James carelessly. "I supposed Miss Quinney would be

considered an exception." He added, with mild derision, "She took no

interest in the covers at all."

"She saw them?" snapped Quinney.

"Possibly," said James.

Tomlin examined them carefully, nodding his big head, getting redder

than usual as he bent down. James had removed one cover.

"They're a bit of all right," pronounced Tomlin.

Quinney led the way upstairs into the sanctuary. Posy was there,

cleaning some beautiful glass lustres. Her father addressed her

snappishly:

"Look ye here, young woman, I don't want you nosin' about downstairs.

See?"

Posy tossed her head, furious with her father because he rebuked her

before Tomlin. She replied coldly:

"I thought I could go where I liked in our own house."

"It's my house. See? You run along to mother like a good girl."

With immense dignity Posy moved to the door. If she wanted to impress

upon her father that she was now a woman grown, she succeeded admirably.

As the door closed behind her, Tomlin said:

"Bit short with her, wasn't you?"

"Do her good. I won't have no _tete-a-tetin'_ between her and James

Miggott."

*I*

They sat down. Quinney pushed a box of cigars across his desk. It

annoyed him slightly that Tomlin selected one with unflattering

suspicion, smelling it, and putting it to his ear.

"It's all right, Tom: I only smoke the best in this room."

Tomlin lit the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and nodded approvingly:

"Must admit, Joe, that you know a bit about most things. Come on

surprisingly, you have."

At this Quinney smiled complacently. Tomlin continued, eyeing his

companion shrewdly and genially:

"I've a proposition to lay before you, Joe."

"Go ahead."

Tomlin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. He closed it softly and

came back.

"Whatever are you up to, old man?"

Tomlin grinned.

"My women," he remarked pensively, "listen at doors."

Quinney exploded.

"And you dare to think that----?"

"Tch! Tch! Nothing like making cocksure. What I have to say is not for

other ears. Now, ain't it a pity that we haven't eight o' them

Chippendale chairs on which we could fit them eight fine covers?"

"Pity? It's a sinful shame."

"Almost a dooty we owe to society to turn them four into eight?"

"Hey?"

"James could do it."

"Are you mad, Tom? We know what James can do. I ain't denyin' that

he's a wonder, but he can't copy them chairs so that you and I, not to

mention the rest of 'em, wouldn't know the difference if the new four

was shoved alongside o' the old four."

"Right!"

"Then what the 'ell are you at?"

Sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, and leaning forward across the

desk, the great Tomlin unfolded his scheme.

"I propose this," he said deliberately. "James can make eight chairs

out of them four by breaking up the four, half and half, half of the old

in each."

"Um!" said Quinney.

"If the worst came to the worst," continued Tomlin, "if any of 'em did

drop on to the fact that the set of eight had been very considerably

restored, what of it?"

"Um!" repeated Quinney.

"A set of eight chairs, slightly restored, with your covers on 'em, the

dead spit of the Pevensey chairs, would excite attention?"

"More than we might want. I don't see Bundy a biddin' for our set

without askin' a lot of questions. He'd spot the repairs."

"Right again. I put these questions, Joe, to have the pleasure of

hearin' you answer them as I would myself. In a sort o' friendly

fashion I look upon you, my boy, as my pupil."

"Go on!"

Tomlin's large face brightened till it shone like a harvest moon. He

had feared that his pupil would withhold those cheering progressive

words.

"Do you want to get back some o' your hard-earned savings which you lost

over that commode?"

"Yes, I do."

"Follow me close. James goes to work on the quiet with my chairs; he

works alone in my room back o' Wardour Street; he puts your covers on;

and then we pass judgment on the completed set. If we're satisfied,

really satisfied, I don't think we need to worry much about Bundy and

Pressland. Lark--thank the Lord!--is losin' his eyesight. When the

chairs have passed our examination, they'll go to Christopher's. You

can leave all that to me. Nobody will know that you and I have ever

seen the chairs."

"Nobody? How about James?"

"Exactly. James must be squared. It's time you raised his salary. I

shall make him a handsome present. Remember, you'll lend James to me

for this little job. It don't concern you."

"You take James for a fool?"

"Not me. James is a bit of a knave, but he knows which side his bread

is buttered. If he was a fool I wouldn't touch him with a bargepole.

I'm afraid o' fools. Now, we've got the chairs to Christopher's, and

we'll choose a small day for the sale, some day when the big men are

elsewhere."

"Then who'll bid for 'em?"

"Me and you, my lad."

He lay back in his chair, winked triumphantly, and laughed. Quinney was

still puzzled.

"Bid for our own chairs? Pay a thumpin' commission to find 'em on our

hands? Funny business!"

"Joe, you ain't quite as sharp as I thought you was. We two, and

anybody else as likes, bid for the chairs. We bid up to nine hundred

pounds. Christopher's commission would be ninety o' that. The chairs

cost me fifty. What do you value them covers at?"

"Five-and-twenty--thirty."

"Call it thirty. Put James's work at another thirty. That makes a

round two hundred quid. What have we got to show for that? A set of

eight chairs which have fetched nine hundred pounds at Christopher's,

with Christopher's receipt to prove that the money was paid down for

'em. Christopher returns that nine hundred, less their com., to my

agent, that is to us. You see to it that the buyin' of the chairs by

you is properly paragraphed. You have them on exhibition in this very

room, and I bring a customer to whom you show Christopher's receipt.

Everything square and simple. My customer offers you eleven hundred.

We share and share alike just nine hundred pounds. Four hundred and

fifty each. No risks!"

"Um!" said Quinney, for the third time. Tomlin rose with alacrity

considering his weight.

"You think it over. Take your time."

"Don't like it!" growled the little man.

"I call it a perfectly legitimate transaction."

"Come off it, Tom!"

"Are you thinkin' o' your inside or your outside? Yer skin or yer

conscience? If it's conscience----"

"Well----?"

"I'll make this remark. One way and t'other I've paid you more than a

thousand pounds for 'restoration' work done by James Miggott during the

past four years or more. Don't forget that! So long!"

Quinney heard him chuckling as he made his way downstairs.

*III*

He became a party to the projected fraud, but not without perturbations

of spirit and rumblings of conscience. Ultimately he salved the latter

with the soothing reflection that he was much more honest than Tomlin or

Lark or Bundy. It is affirmed, with what truth I know not, that

gluttons who happen to be total abstainers are peculiarly virulent

against drunkards. Quinney, poor fellow, son of a dishonest father,

dishonest himself during his earlier manhood, reflected joyously that he

was an admirable husband and father. He said to Susan, who was in

blissful ignorance of his dealings with Tom Tomlin:

"Old Tomlin, hoary-headed sinner, went to Blackpool for the last

week-end, and he didn't go alone, nor with Mrs. T., neither. He's a

moral idiot is Tom. What would you say, Susie, if I went larkin' off to

Brighton with Mabel Dredge--hey?"

He pinched her still blooming cheek, staring into her faithful eyes.

Susan replied artlessly:

"Joe, dear, it would break my heart."

"Gosh, I believe it would. Well, mother, your loving heart won't be

broken that way."

Susan knew that this was true, and smiled delightfully.

"I'm a good hubby," said Quinney complacently, "and the very best of

fathers, by Gum!"

Whenever he "swanked" (we quote Posy) like this, Susan regarded him

anxiously.

James Miggott undertook his new job without protest, but there was an

expression upon his handsome face which puzzled his employer. He summed

up James as "downy." When he raised the young man's salary to four

pounds a week, that derisive smile of which mention has been made,

played about James's too thin lips. Quinney said sharply:

"You don't seem bustin' with joy and gladness. Four quid a week ain't to

be sneezed at."

"Don't I earn it, sir?"

His tone was perfectly respectful, with a faint sub-acid inflection.

When the four chairs were turned into eight, and duly covered with the

precious needlework, Tomlin and Quinney inspected them with huge

satisfaction. Certainly James had done himself justice. The

restorations were subjected to microscopic scrutiny. Tomlin smacked his

gross lips.

"You leave the rest to me," he said.

*IV*

The time has come to explain James's smile. We must attempt what French

dramatic critics term the "_scene obligatoire_."

He had captured Posy.

He achieved this easily, because he happened to be the first

good-looking man to make love to a healthy young woman of lively

sensibilities and affections. Here again the uncharitable may be

justified in hinting at that practice which makes the game of love

perfect. If Youth but knew! This youth did know many things which he

kept to himself discreetly; saliently amongst them may be reckoned the

art of striking hard when the iron is hot. Posy grew very hot, when her

sire rebuked her for wandering downstairs into James's room. James

perceived this. Let us say this for him in partial excuse of what

follows. He had fallen in love with a blooming girl, whose bloom

contrasted so agreeably with the too-white cheeks of Miss Mabel Dredge,

whose high spirits were strong enough to raise to their level his

somewhat gloomy thoughts. Truth being the essence of this chronicle, we

are constrained to add that the hope of being admitted to partnership

with a prospective father-in-law had been another lever towards this

mental exaltation. Nor did James forget that Posy was possessed, under

Mrs. Biddlecombe's will, of some three thousand pounds which became hers

absolutely when she attained her majority.

The pair talked together very seldom after Quinney's injunction, but

they passed each other half a dozen times a day, preserving a silence

which is perhaps the most barbed dart in Dan Cupid's quiver! Each began

to study facial expression, and the finer shades of common salutation.

The mere words, "Good-morning," admit infinite variety of inflection.

The pronouncing of a name, even such a name as Quinney, may be made

lyrical, almost hymeneal. James showed himself to be a master of these

simple arts. His appearance at such moments indicated suffering nobly

controlled. Posy began to lie awake at night wondering if James also

was a martyr to insomnia. You may be sure that she encountered James in

those pleasant suburbs of slumber frequented by lovers, the _vias

tenebrosas_ where Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura, Francesca and

Paolo, must have wandered hand in hand. Here, in sequestered peace Posy

talked to James without any exasperating restrictions save those which

maidenly modesty imposed. Imaginary conversations have won many hearts.

And then one day occurred the _coup de foudre_.

Quinney and Susan happened to be out. Posy, as usual, was dusting the

china in the sanctuary. James entered the room.

"Good-morning, Mr. Miggott!"

"Good-morning, Miss--Posy!"

He had never called her Posy before. But she divined from the

tenderness of his tone that her name must have passed his lips a

thousand times.

They looked at each other diffidently. Posy stretched out her hand.

She felt that this was due to an artist who might reasonably infer that

he was not held in the highest esteem by his master's daughter. James

hesitated for one moment only. Then he kissed her hand. She quivered.

He ran his hungry lips along her slender wrist. She thrilled and

sighed. He took her into his arms and kissed her masterfully, feeling

her heart throbbing beneath his own.

Presently they discussed the future, although loath indeed to leave the

present.

"What will father say?"

"Darling, you must let me deal with your father."

"Can you?"

"I think so. I am sure of it. We must be patient and very, very

careful."

"I should like to tell mother."

"No, no! Believe me that would be a blunder. She would tell him. For

the moment we must love secretly."

She sighed deliciously.

"It does sound exciting and romantic. Of course you know best."

"I do!" he replied grimly. "I know that I shall have to fight for you.

I mean to fight. You'll see. But we must be extra careful. A look----!

We can write to each other."

Her smooth forehead puckered.

"Can we? Father always deals out the letters. He would think nothing of

opening mine if he suspected."

"I have a plan."

"What! You have made plans? You were sure of me?"

"No, no! Never sure. Torn in two, I was, between hope and fear, but I

made plans all the same. Look here, we can use that lac cabinet as a

pillar-box."

"Father's precious cabinet?"

"He never opens it; the drawers are empty; the key is in the lock."

Together they approached the cabinet, one of the "gems." Upon the top

of it stood the K'ang He mirror-black jar much beloved by Quinney.

James opened the cabinet, almost more beautiful within than without. He

indicated a drawer.

"Pop your letters into that. Then lock the cabinet and hide the key in

the mirror-black bottle."

"What a splendid idea!"

"Isn't it? If he misses the key, you will be asked to find it, and you

will find it. Then we can choose another pillar-box. You will post

your letters, dearest, in the morning, when you are dusting here. In the

middle of the day, while you are lunching, I shall get your letter and

post one of my own. That way we run no risks at all."

"You are quite wonderful!"

Susan had used the same words to her Joe twenty years before.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*INTRODUCES CYRUS P. HUNSAKER*

*I*

Some three weeks later the "restored" Chippendale chairs were sold on a

by-day at Christopher's famous auction rooms, and, as the public prints

set forth, were secured after spirited competition for nine hundred

pounds by Mr. Joseph Quinney, of Soho Square. There had been, according

to the reporters, a duel _a outrance_ between Quinney and Tomlin for the

possession of these magnificent chairs.

Upon the following morning Posy was alone in the sanctuary. Her father

had installed recently a speaking-tube, communicating with James

Miggott's room, which was just behind the shop. Posy used this whenever

the chance presented itself to exchange a few whispered words with her

lover. She had just informed him that a billet had been popped into the

lac cabinet. Also she had exchanged kisses through the tube, and

perhaps on that account her eyes were sparkling more brightly than

usual. She was hanging up the tube when Susan entered.

"Thought I heard you talking just before I came in," said Susan.

Posy, the hardened young sinner, never blushed as she answered lightly:

"I was asking Jim through the tube where father was."

Susan stared at her pensively.

"Your dear father would be very much displeased if he heard you speaking

of James Miggott as Jim. It's too familiar."

"Why?"

"I'm not going to bandy words with you, Posy, because you do get the

best of me, thanks to your fine schooling."

Posy frowned. She was hearing too often of her "advantages." She said

protestingly:

"Mumsie, dear, don't rub that in. I'm fed up with such vain repetitions

from father. I didn't ask him to send me to an expensive

boarding-school. I believe he did it to annoy the Tomlins."

This, we know, was not the reason, but there was some truth in it. Tom

Tomlin had considered a governess at forty-five pounds per annum quite

good enough to educate his three daughters. Susan laughed. Posy amused

her when she talked with entire frankness.

"Dear heart, what things you do say, to be sure! You were sent to

Bexhill because there was too much Honeybunning. But it did annoy the

Tomlins. I remember when your grandmother bought a small piano for me.

We lived in a semi-detached. How the neighbours did tear their hair

with envy and jealousy."

Posy, clad in a neat pinafore, was rubbing the lacquer cabinet. Mrs.

Quinney watched her fondly, thinking how young and vigorous the girl

was.

"Rub the lacquer gently, child. Coax the polish back."

"Right O," said Posy.

"Your poor father thinks the world of that cabinet."

"So do I," said Posy demurely.

Susan opened her eyes wider than usual, detecting real warmth in her

daughter's voice.

"Do you? That's your father cropping out in you. I'm beginning to

believe that he prefers things to persons; so you'd better be warned in

time. The beauty of this world ain't to be found in sticks or stones."

"Cheer up, mumsie! I shan't devote my young life to either a stick or a

stone."

She laughed softly as Mabel Dredge came quietly in. Susan looked at her

husband's typist not too pleasantly. She was not jealous of the young

woman, but it exasperated her to reflect that Mabel spent two hours at

least every day with Quinney. She said crisply:

"Mr. Quinney is out, Miss Dredge."

"I know. The chairs from Christopher's have just come."

Posy exclaimed excitedly: "I'm dying to see them." Susan sighed. Nine

hundred pounds would have bought another Dream Cottage, with a small

garden. Miss Dredge continued in her monotonous voice:

"Mr. Quinney left orders that they were to be brought up here."

"Very good," said Susan. "Tell Mr. Miggott to bring them up."

"Yes, madam."

The typist moved slowly towards the door. Susan glanced at her keenly,

contrasting her with Posy. In her usual kind voice she murmured:

"You don't look very well, Miss Dredge."

"I am perfectly well, thank you, madam."

She went out, closing the door. Susan said reflectively:

"Crossed in love, I dare say."

"Poor dear, I hope not."

"Six months ago I did think that she and James Miggott might make a

match of it."

"What?"

"Why shouldn't they? Very suitable, I'm sure."

"Oh yes," Posy murmured hastily. Changing the subject briskly, she went

on: "If the Christopher chairs are to be placed in this room, I suppose

that father means to keep them."

"Till he gets a big price."

Presently James appeared, followed by two men carrying the chairs. They

were arranged side by side in a double row. Posy examined them with the

keenest interest. Susan glanced at them and sniffed:

"Fancy paying nine hundred pounds for those!"

"They're simply lovely,"'said Posy. She stroked the needlework and

glanced at James's impassive face. "It's funny, but there's something

familiar about them to me. I must have seen them before."

"Quite impossible," said James. "They came out of an old house in

Ireland. They're almost replicas of the famous Pevensey set, which Lark

and Bundy bought."

Susan had moved to one of the windows overlooking the dingy square. She

never beheld the trees and grass without thinking of her beloved

flower-garden in Melchester. The sight of the chairs annoyed her

tremendously. More false gods! Would the day ever conic when her Joe,

with his keen love of beauty, would turn his eyes and heart to what

grew, to what was alive? She heard Posy saying:

"It's the needlework I seem to recognize."

"Bother the needlework!" exclaimed Susan.

"Why, mumsie, what is it?"

"It worries me to see you kneeling and gloating over stupid old

furniture, that's all. Here's your father coming. Good-looking young

fellow with him, too. Much better worth looking at than them chairs."

James retired. Posy joined her mother at the window. Just below stood

her father and a tall stranger. Quinney was pointing out the pediment,

and expatiating volubly upon the solid qualities of Georgian houses.

"Father is swanking," said Posy.

The two men entered the shop below.

*II*

Presently, Quinney came upstairs, betraying some excitement, easily

accounted for by Susan. A big buyer was below, the sort of customer who

might spend hundreds without turning a hair. Quinney was rubbing his

hands together and chuckling. He informed the ladies that a rich

American was in the shop, and wanted to see the chairs.

"They're here," said Susan.

Quinney frowned very slightly. It annoyed him when his wife made futile

remarks, a habit which she seemed to have acquired recently, or was he

becoming more critical?

"Where did you think I thought they was?" he inquired, hovering about

them, but not gloating over them, somewhat to Susan's surprise.

"Want us out of the way?" asked Susan.

"Certainly not. Isn't this your drawing-room, old dear?"

"Fiddle!" said Susan tartly.

She could not have explained why she was feeling irritable, but of late,

since Posy's return from school, she had lost something of her normal

serenity. Possibly she resented being made a fool of before her

daughter. The sanctuary was not her room, and never had been or could

be anything but Quinney's room, filled to overflowing with his things.

Also, she was aware that her husband used her as a stalking horse. No

doubt he had just said to this young American: "I'll ask my wife if I

can show you her room." What nonsense!

Quinney, however, was not disturbed by her exclamation. He glanced at

Posy, and told her to take off a brown holland pinafore. Then he

scuttled off, still chuckling. He reappeared, ushering in the stranger,

presenting him as Mr. Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker.

Mr. Hunsaker bowed politely. Posy perceived that he was very

nice-looking, an out-of-doors man, bronzed by wind and sun, a typical

Westerner, probably a rider of bucking bronchos, a man of flocks and

herds. He was quite at his ease with the two women, and--unlike young

Englishmen of his age (he looked about thirty)--able to appreciate what

he saw in words culled from a copious vocabulary. Quinney was delighted

with him. He liked most Americans because they were strivers and

pushers, and free with their dollars. He saw, too, that Posy had made

an immense impression. Hunsaker stared at her with flattering

intensity. Posy, equally at ease, asked him if the town of Hunsaker was

called after him. This mightily pleased her father, because it

established the right atmosphere at once. The "shop" was downstairs.

From beginning to end the little comedy about to be played had been

rehearsed between Tomlin and Quinney. Tomlin had found Hunsaker and

introduced Quinney to him, as the proud owner of the chairs which he,

Tomlin, had wanted to secure. Tomlin had said sorrowfully: "They're

just what you're after, Mr. Hunsaker, but this Quinney, queer little

cuss!--bought 'em, I do believe, for himself. He won't part with his

very best things. He's quite potty about it!" This had challenged

Hunsaker's interest. Quinney, seemingly, was a man after his own heart.

He, too, hated to part with certain possessions. He did not as yet know

much about articles of _vertu_, but he wanted to know. An unslakable

thirst for such knowledge consumed many dollars. He answered Posy

breezily--one had a whiff of the prairie, of the Wild West.

"Shall I tell you, Miss Quinney, how that great and growing town came to

be called by my name?"

"Please."

"Well, most of the towns and villages in New Mexico used to be called

after the names of saints and saintesses. When it came to christening

this particular village the boys wanted to name it San Clement, but my

father was of opinion that we were fed up with saints, so he said: 'Hold

hard, why not call this little burg by the name of a sinner!' And, the

drinks were on the old man, for then and there they called it Hunsaker."

"Was your father a sinner?" asked Posy demurely.

Hunsaker laughed.

"He was a tough old nut when up against the wrong crowd. Ah! the

chairs!"

"Yes," said Quinney carelessly.

"Elegant!" He glanced at the beautiful room with enthusiasm. It made

inordinate demands upon his vocabulary. He racked his brains for the

right words which came. Very solemnly, he observed:

"You have here, Mr. Quinney, an incomparable reservation."

"Yes," Quinney replied, with equal gravity, "this is my private

collection, Mr. Hunsaker; everything I value most in the world,

including my wife and daughter. Lordy! How I hate rubbish! Rubbish is

beastly!" He pointed to the lacquer cabinet, purposely distracting the

young man's attention from the chairs. "Now a cabinet like that makes

me think of heaven. I can say my prayers to it!"

Susan said, with a touch of her mother's majesty:

"Joe, how you do go on!"