Quinneys 8

Quinneys 8

Le Marchant laughed.

 

"These are Bretons, Mr. Quinney. Celts, not Latins."

 

He began to explain, talking very pleasantly, with a knowledge of his

subject which challenged Susan’s attention. She liked to hear about

people so different from herself; their quaint superstitions, their

ardent beliefs, and the primitive simplicity of their lives appealed to

her strangely. But she was quick to perceive that Joe was bored. His

shrewd face wore an __EXPRESSION__ gradually becoming familiar to her. Later

he would say that there was nothing "in" such talk. It didn’t lead

anywhere; at any rate not in the directions whither Susan and he were

steering. Why couldn’t Le Marchant talk about that Quimper pottery,

those jolly old figures of the Saints and Saintesses. A man might pick

up a wrinkle or two worth something listening to _that_. He knocked the

ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet.

 

"Ain’t we wastin’ valuable time?" he asked.

 

 

*V*

 

The establishment of the master copyist much impressed Quinney on

account of its size. The visitors were shown everything, and the

proprietor said to Mrs. Quinney:

 

"Vous voyez, madame, je ne cache pas mon jeu, moi."

 

"What’s he sayin’?" asked Joe.

 

Le Marchant answered.

 

"He assures us that he’s not a faker."

 

They beheld tanks of acid in which new ironwork was placed. In a few

hours or days the corroding acid achieved the work of years. There were

piles of wood, new and old, awaiting treatment. Quinney asked if there

was a worm-holing machine. He had heard that one had been patented.

The proprietor laughed.

 

"The worms themselves do the work here, monsieur."

 

Then he placed in Joe’s hands two wooden candle-sticks.

 

"One of these," said he, "is genuine, and worth its weight in gold, a

fine specimen of the sixteenth century. The other was made here within

a year. Which is which?"

 

"Lawsy!" said Quinney. "I ought to know."

 

He examined them very carefully, and guessed wrong.

 

Le Marchant smiled, well pleased, because he had predicted truly. The

proprietor pointed to a bureau of oak, exquisitely carved.

 

"Is that old or new, monsieur?"

 

Quinney spent five minutes in examining the specimen, feeling the

"patine," scraping it with his nail, staring through his glass at the

marks of the chisels.

 

"It’s old," said he at last.

 

"It’s quite new, monsieur."

 

"I’m fairly done," said Joe. "This beats the world, this does."

 

"That piece," said the proprietor, "is signed by me here," and he showed

Quinney two interlaced initials, cleverly concealed. "The original is

in the Cluny, and valued by experts at four thousand pounds. I can sell

it for sixteen pounds."

 

"Mark it ’sold,’" said Joe.

 

He bought chests old and new, panelling, tables and chairs, desks and

wardrobes. The proprietor smiled, rubbing his hands together.

 

"Obviously, monsieur is in the business?"

 

"I am," replied Quinney, "and, by Gum, I thought I knew my business till

I met you."

 

Le Marchant acted as interpreter. The three returned to Treguier and

breakfasted upon the small terrace overlooking the Jaudy. Quinney was

in the highest spirits. But to Susan’s dismay, he talked of returning

to England and finishing their honeymoon in a country where a man could

make himself understood. What about Weymouth? What price nice sands?

He assured Le Marchant that his Susan liked paddling, because she could

show a neat pair of ankles. Also they could nip over to Dorchester.

Rare place that for old stuff! Inevitably he returned to his business

with an enthusiasm which indicated that he found it more engrossing than

ordinary honeymooning. Susan listened with a tiny wrinkle between her

smooth brows. When Quinney rushed upstairs to fill his pouch with

English tobacco, Le Marchant said thoughtfully:

 

"Wonderfully keen, isn’t he?"

 

The swiftness of her answer surprised him.

 

"Do you think he’s too keen?"

 

He evaded the eager question.

 

"As for that, Mrs. Quinney, one can hardly be too keen in business

nowadays."

 

"I meant—is he too keen for his own happiness?"

 

He hesitated. On the morrow he would go his way, and, humanly speaking,

there was little probability of his meeting this particular couple

again. He wondered vaguely what the future held for them. Then he

shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

 

"His keenness might make for his happiness. I divide the people I know

into two classes, those who care for things and those who care for

persons."

 

"Surely a man can care for both?"

 

"One must be the dominant interest."

 

"You think it’s bad to care too much for things?"

 

"You are very sharp. However, in this case there isn’t much cause for

serious alarm."

 

"Why not?"

 

He stared pensively at her charming face, thinking that Quinney was

indeed a lucky fellow to have captured and captivated so sweet a

creature.

 

"Well, you stand between him and false gods."

 

"False gods! What a good way of describing faked Chelsea figures!"

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER IV*

 

*THE INSTALLATION*

 

*I*

 

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe welcomed the homing couple when they returned to the

Dream Cottage, but she positively refused to forsake the semi-detached

in Laburnum Row, although Quinney, for his part, was willing to

entertain a mother-in-law indefinitely, if Susan wished it. Susan,

rather to his surprise, did not wish it. And the obvious fact that her

husband considered the matter of small importance slightly distressed

her, as indicating an abnormal indifference to _persons_ which

contrasted oddly with his absorption in _things_ of wood and stone,

graven images, let us call them, which the almighty Tomlin had set up in

the freshly decorated and enlarged premises in Mel Street. Tomlin,

indeed, had sent down a lot of stuff, and some of it was very good. Joe

could hardly tear himself from the porcelain, and gloated over the blue

and white, so Susan affirmed, as if he wished to kiss it.

 

The London dealer followed his crates.

 

He expressed unqualified approval of what Joe had bought in Brittany,

taking, however, most of the credit to himself, inasmuch as he had

dispatched Quinney to Treguier. The younger man grinned, wondering what

Tomlin would say when he beheld the Dream Cottage and its furniture. He

arranged that Mrs. Biddlecombe should be present upon that memorable

occasion, for he was well aware that the good soul did not share his

enthusiasm for mahogany, and that she resented his criticism of her

burked schemes of decoration.

 

Need it be recorded that Quinney triumphed? Tomlin was so impressed that

he said gaspingly, "I’ll take the lot off your hands, Joe, at a

twenty-five per cent. advance."

 

"No, you won’t!" replied Joe. "Our furniture is not for sale, old man.

Not yet, by Gum!"

 

"You are a wonder!" said Tomlin generously.

 

"Isn’t he?" exclaimed Susan.

 

It was a great moment.

 

Late dinner followed, a _partie carrée_. Joe provided champagne, and

port in a cut-glass decanter. Warmed by this splendid hospitality,

Tomlin became anecdotal. Perhaps he wanted to astonish the ladies.

Unquestionably he succeeded in doing so. One story will suffice to

illustrate Tomlin’s methods, and it was told, be it remembered, with

exuberant chucklings within two hundred yards of the Cathedral Close.