Meanwhile he had told her of his solemn oath, which made a profound impression upon a sensitive mind and conscience. The immediate consequence, however, of a determination to renounce false gods was absolutely unforeseen. Two days after the birth of the baby, when the shattered little mother was still lying between life and death, Quinney distracted his mind by putting on one side every doubtful piece of _vertu_ in his possession, repricing faithfully, even at a loss to himself, each particular fake. He was engrossed in this very uncongenial task—for the old Adam was merely dazed and not dead within him—when the Marquess of Mel entered the shop. He had heard from Dr. Ransome a racy and humorous account of Quinney under stress, and had been much moved thereby. As a grand seigneur of the old school he deemed it a duty to call upon so remarkable a tenant, and if necessary, hearten him up by the purchase of a bit of furniture or china. Heretofore, the Quinneys, father and son, had dealt with the magnate’s agent. Lord Mel, so far as he knew, had never exchanged a single word with the son of a man whom he accounted an old rascal. Quinney received him without betraying any awe of his rank, listening respectfully to his landlord’s felicitations. He loved a lord, as all true Britons do and must, but he had not yet recovered from a tremendous shock, and his thoughts were entirely centred upon Susan. When Lord Mel paused, Quinney replied: "She’s not out of the wood yet, my lord." "I know how you feel—I have been through it. And now show me over your premises. The Bishop tells me that you have some fine porcelain." "I’ve a lot of poor stuff, too!" grumbled Quinney. Lord Mel smiled. He enjoyed what he called "browsing" in curiosity shops, but he had never heard so candid an admission before. He was still more surprised at what followed. His own taste strayed pleasantly in the eighteenth century, and he was not aware, of course, that this was Quinney’s beloved period. Nor did he know that the saloon at Mel Court was nearly as familiar to Quinney as to himself. At first his attention was challenged by the faked oak. The panels were really beautiful, and inasmuch as they had deceived Quinney himself, it is not very remarkable that they imposed themselves upon an amateur. "Have you much of this oak?" he asked. "Any amount of it!" "Enough to panel a room?" "Yes, I think so." "What will you take for the lot? It happens that I can use it at Mel Court. I am building a new billiard room, and my lady is rather tired of mahogany." Quinney’s keen eyes sparkled. Lord Mel was too big a swell to bargain, and he was obviously not a "think-it-over fellow." He would pay, cheerfully, a big price for these panels and, as likely as not, ask no questions about them. Then he thought of Susan, white and helpless in the big bed. With a tremendous effort, and speaking abruptly, as man to man, he said: "It’s all faked stuff." "What! Impossible!"