Tomlin stroked his chin pensively. It occurred to him that so sharp a practitioner as James Miggott would never come to grief. As a suitor for one of his three daughters, he would not consider him too rashly as ineligible. "Posy might do worse," he muttered. "Ho! That’s it. Sidin’ with them? Thought you might!" "Face the music, Joe! We’re hanged, high as Haman, unless the ladies come to the rescue. It’s a bit thick his threatenin’ you. How does Posy take that—um?" "How can I tell her what he’s threatening to do? James knows that, the dog!" "You can hint at unpleasantness. Posy ought to know that her young man is buckin’ about ruining you." "Maybe you’d like to talk to Susan and Posy?" "I should. I understand women; you don’t." "You shall talk to ’em." He hurried to the door, and through it on to the landing. "Susan!—Su—san!" Susan’s voice was heard descending from above: "Is that you calling, Joe?" "Who did yer think it was? The Archbishop o’ Canterbury or the First Lord of the Admiralty? Come you down quick, and bring Posy with you." He stumped back into the sanctuary to confront Tomlin’s scornful face. "That the way you talk to an angry woman? Had any words with Mrs. Quinney this morning?" "I’ve been talking to her and at her, off and on, ever since breakfast." "Pore, dear soul!" ejaculated Tomlin. *CHAPTER XXII* *A TEST* *I* Posy may have been crying, but the colour and sparkle remained in her eyes; and she had arrayed herself in a smart and becoming costume, which Quinney recognized as "Sunday best." Let women decide what motive animated this preening. If she were to be turned out of Soho Square, Posy, not unreasonably, may have decided to take her prettiest frock with her. On the other hand, with equal wisdom, she may have thought that the sight of a charming young woman in all her bravery is likely to melt the heart of the sternest man. Because she appeared on this momentous morning fresh and alluring, let us not accuse her of heartlessness. If destined by Fate to lose a father, she would gain a husband. Poor Susan, limp and bedraggled, was miserably sensible that victory for her would inflict consequences more crushing than defeat. "Goin’ to church?" Quinney inquired of his daughter. Posy replied respectfully: "Only if driven there by you." Tomlin, rumbling and grumbling after his dietical indiscretions, greeted the young lady with a phrase often on his lips: "Seasonable weather for the time of year?" Susan glanced at him scornfully, and said audibly: "Fiddle!" Quinney apologized for this breach of politeness after his own fashion: "Be’ind the door, she was, Tom, when they collected threepence a head for manners. Now, sit you down!" Tomlin waved a half-consumed cigar, addressing Susan: "Any objections to my smoking, ma’am?"