"Now, don’t you worry, Mr. Quinney, because there’s nothing to worry about with Dr. Ransome and me in charge of the case. We never have any trouble with our patients. You’ll be the proud father of a big fat baby-boy before you know where you are." She talked on very agreeably, but she managed to convey to her listener that, temporarily, he was an outsider, at the beck and call of women, and regarded by them as negligible. This impression became so strong that he knocked the ashes and half-consumed tobacco out of a second pipe before he entered the Dream Cottage. The nurse was greeted by Mrs. Biddlecombe with majestic courtesy and taken upstairs. Once more Quinney found himself alone. Feeling much more hopeful, he beguiled another hour in examining his furniture and china. It is worth mentioning that already he was able to discern flaws in these precious possessions, indicating an eye becoming more trained in its quest after perfection. None of these household gods were regarded as permanent. They would be sold to make room for finer specimens of craftsmanship. Amongst his china, he discovered a bogus bit. Hitherto he had believed it to be a fine specimen. He was half-distressed, half-pleased at the amazing discovery. He had paid five pounds for it. The paste was all right, but the decoration was unquestionably of a later period. Half of its value, actual and prospective, had vanished. Nevertheless, the gain was enormous. Unaided, he had detected the false decoration, the not quite pure quality of the gilding. "I’m climbin’!" he muttered to himself. As he replaced the "fake" in the cabinet, consoling himself with the reflection that he could easily resell it at the price he had paid, he smelt fried fish. Extremely annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where Maria was caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying mackerel at six o’clock. "What’s the meaning o’ this?" Maria answered tartly: "Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe." She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to glare at him, as if resenting his appearance in his own kitchen as an unpardonable intrusion. Quinney said violently, not sorry to let off steam: "What the hell d’ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my supper at seven, and you know it!" Maria tossed her head. "You’ll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe’s orders. I shall give notice if you swear at me." He fled—vanquished by another woman. At the door he fired a parting shot: "Smells all over Melchester. I believe that fish is bad." "I didn’t buy it," replied Maria calmly. *II* The meat tea was served, and Mrs. Biddlecombe joined Quinney at table. He made no protests, but refused to touch the mackerel. When interrogated he said that he disliked stale fish. "Stale fish, Joseph!" "Did you buy it?" "I did." "Did you choose it?" Mrs. Biddlecombe’s ample cheeks turned a deeper damask.