The cottage was roofed with big red tiles encrusted with mosses and lichen; and about its walls in summer-time clambered roses and clematis. "I love it already," Miss Biddlecombe declared with fervour. "More than you love me?" For answer she made a grimace. Quinney, with a broad grin upon his lips, encircled her waist with his arm. But a pin pierced his finger, which began to bleed, whereupon the young woman seized the finger and put her lips to it. "I’ve drunk my Joe’s blood," she said, with a charming blush. "Oh, you jolly cannibal!" exclaimed Quinney. They kissed each other tenderly, and almost forgot the cottage. Presently Quinney said, "I believe this’ll do?" and she answered ecstatically, "It’s exactly right." Quinney qualified this. "There may be others better still; it’s only the best we’ve seen so far." "I dare say you think there’s a better girl than I am somewhere or other?" "No, I don’t!" "How awful it would be if I caught you looking for her." "No fear o’ that!" he affirmed solemnly. Next morning early they went together to the agent, derisively scornful of the gossips, who, to do them justice, refrained from unpleasant remarks. Laburnum Row knew by this time that young Joe Quinney had ten thousand pounds, and the rosy-fingered fact that he had found a wife in a semi-detached cottage was tremendously acclaimed. The agent smiled discreetly when he saw them, and may have wished, poor fellow, that he, too, was young again and shamelessly in love. "Bird-nestin’, we are," said Quinney. "Just so. Did you like the nest you saw yesterday?" The sly fellow glanced at the girl, who answered eagerly, "It’s too sweet for anything!" Obviously, she wished to clinch the bargain on the nail, but, much to her exasperation, the more cautious male began to ask questions, listening attentively to the answers, and displaying a shrewd understanding. Susan decided that her Joe was wasting valuable time, because she wanted to discuss wallpapers. She sniffed when Quinney said, "Is there anything else on your books prettier than this cottage?" She shuffled impatiently, when the agent answered impassively, "Oh yes!" While the men had been talking she had decided that an ugly pigsty must be pulled down, that the kitchen must be refloored, and that the big water barrel should be painted apple-green and white. "Where is this other cottage?" "On the Mel, five minutes’ walk from your place. It belongs to the widow of an artist, and it’s a real bargain. You ought to see it." "We will see it," said Quinney. Susan shrugged her small shoulders. All this talk was lamentably foolish. Men were great sillies. While they were staring at cottage number two, some enterprising stranger might snap up cottage number one. A nice sell that would be! "Come on, Sue," said Quinney. Miss Biddlecombe "came on" reluctantly holding her tongue because she dared not speak her mind before the agent, and very cross by reason of this abstention.