"We’ll see," said Le Marchant, smiling. "What did you think of the Pardon yesterday?" He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking it for granted that his opinion was worth something. "Rum show! Very—French, hey? Praying hard all the morning didn’t prevent ’em from getting jolly tight in the afternoon." 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."