Next day they paid a visit to the great artist, who reproduced so wonderfully pieces of old furniture. Fortunately for the Quinneys, the Englishman, whom they had met at the Pardon, accompanied them. He happened to be staying at the same inn, and knew _le pays Tregorrois_ as well as, indeed much better than, Quinney knew Melshire. Also he spoke French fluently, and could make himself understood in Breton. Lastly, he was something of a collector of Breton _faience_ and old oak, a buyer in a small way of chests and panelling. The Quinneys interested him enormously. Joe was evidently an original, and Susan, as evidently, the reverse, and the more attractive on that account in masculine eyes. He swooped upon the immense differences in the characters of bride and groom, having the instinct of the explorer, and promised himself some amusement in studying them. Joe had been as frank with him as he was with Mrs. Biddlecombe. "I’ve powers within me," he explained, over a matutinal pipe. "They push me on—see?" George Le Marchant nodded, smiling pleasantly. "Pushed you across the Channel?" he suggested. "Just so. Beastly crossin’—humiliatin’. Felt like a scoured worm!" Susan interrupted. She saw that Le Marchant, although he wore shabby clothes, was a gentleman. "That’ll do, Joe." "Nearly did ’do’ for me. The wife"—he liked this expression, having heard Pinker use it—"the wife fairly wallered in it. Blue water, wind and waves—ugh!" "It would have been just lovely," Susan admitted, "if Mr. Quinney——" "Hadn’t ’ad his bloomin’ head in a basin. No, I ain’t going to say another word. Disgusting about fits it. Well, I was saying it was something stronger than meself drove me out of good old England." "Mr. Tomlin," put in Susan. She added for the benefit of the stranger, "He’s a big London dealer." Joe snorted. "Tomlin ain’t stronger than me, Susan. He’s bigger in the trade, that’s all, and come to his full growth, too. I’m sorter speak sproutin’. Do you know Tomlin, of the Fulham Road?" "Oh yes." Le Marchant smiled faintly. Quinney, intent upon his own glorification, missed a derisive expression, but Susan was sharper. She decided instantly that there had been "dealings" between the great Tomlin and this nice gentleman, and that they had not been entirely satisfactory. Joe continued, warming to his work: "Tomlin told me about this faker of old oak." "But he’s not a faker. Really, you must purge your mind of that. He’s an artist. Dealers, of course, buy his reproductions and sell them again as authentic antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for what they are—superb copies. They are so masterly in every detail that you won’t know the copy from the original when you see both together." "Oh, won’t I?" said Quinney. "I’ve a lot to learn, and I’m learning something every day, but old oak is my hobby. I’ve handled it since I was a baby, and I shall know."