"You ain’t honest; you ain’t straight; you ain’t fit to marry an honest girl!" James raised his eyebrows. "Isn’t this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?" "Yes, it is. We’re both pots—dirty pots. How dirty I someway never saw till to-night. But my Posy is porcelain—clean, dainty porcelain. You can’t touch her without defilin’ her. Now—scoot!" "Without settling anything?" "You shall be settled to-morrow. Don’t worry." The young man smiled. "You are wise, sir, to take a night to sleep over it." "Done talkin’?" "For to-night, yes." "Good! Because with every extra word you’re givin’ yourself dead away. Easier to marry money than to make it, hey? Kennel up, you puppy!" The puppy snarled at this, but withdrew. *III* Alone, Quinney opened the cupboard beneath the china cabinet, taking from it a cut-glass decanter half-filled with brown sherry, and two glasses, which he placed upon his desk. Then he summoned Susan. She drifted in rather helplessly, somewhat of a wreck after the storm. Quinney ensconced her in a chair, filled the two glasses with wine, and pushed one across the desk to Susan. She shook her head. "Drink it, you old spoof-sticks! Lordy, Sue, I didn’t know you had it in yer! What a spirit! What a little tigress!" He tossed off his glass, smacking his lips. "I meant it, Joe." "Tch! tch! In two sticks you’ll have my pore leg pulled out of shape." "I meant it, every word of it." "What? You’d leave the best and kindest hubby in the world?" "I’d leave a crool, heartless father." For answer, Quinney seized his empty glass and slammed it down upon the desk, smashing it riotously. Susan said in the same weak, obstinate tone: "Do that to her dear heart, you would." He snatched at the full glass, and hurled that to the floor. Susan merely observed: "Another two shillings gone!" "Two shillings? Ten! Old Bristol! Lovely stuff!" "There you go again." "Ho! You really think I care about money?" "Yes, I do." "Well, I don’t. You say I care about things. So I do. But things have been a means to an end with me. Never mind that now. If you don’t know yer luck in havin’ Joe Quinney for a husband, he’s too busy a man to learn ye. I want to talk about something else. This James Miggott’s a bad lad. He’s threatening me." The word challenged Susan’s attention. "Threatening you, Joe? What about?" Quinney’s high colour deepened. Susan had cornered him. His voice became less masterful. "Never you mind what about! He ain’t goin’ to down me that way."