"Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell honest fakes cheap, we can sell the real Simon pure stuff at the top notch. Rich people don’t haggle over a few extra pounds if they know that they’re not being imposed upon. I’m going to offer to take back any bit I sell as genuine which may be pronounced doubtful by the experts." Tomlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted faith in experts. Also, he, was beginning to realize that Quinneys’ as a sort of dumping-ground for his surplus and inferior wares was now under a high protective tariff. He growled out: "If you think you know your own business——" "Cocksure of it, old man!" "I can only hope that Pride won’t have a fall." "You come with me and drink my daughter’s health. Never saw such a kid in all my life—and not a month old!" Tomlin grinned, perceiving an opportunity of "landing" heavily. "Daughter? Rather muddled things, haven’t you? Thought you’d arranged with your missis that it was to be a boy?" "Did you? Well, being a better husband than you are, I let her ’ave her own way in that." *IV* The daughter was duly christened Josephina Biddlecombe, and, for the purposes of this narrative, we may skip a number of pet names, beginning with Baby and ending with Josie-posie. Ultimately she was called Posy and nothing else—a rechristening that took place in the distinguished presence of the Bishop of Melchester. The child was nearly three years old when that courtly prelate happened to drift into the shop. Susan and the child had entered a few minutes before. "And what is your name, my dear?" he asked. "Josie-posie," she replied demurely. Even at that early age Quinney’s daughter was absolutely devoid of fear or shyness. She added confidingly: "And I wear a macheese." "What does she wear?" asked the Bishop of Susan. Susan blushed. "She means a—chemise, my lord." The Bishop laughed heartily, inferring that hitherto she had worn some other garment. Then he said in his pleasant voice: "Josie-posie is too big a name for so tiny a maid. I like the second half of it better than the first." "So do I," said Susan. "Yes, yes; Posy is a sweet, old-fashioned name, and it describes the child admirably." When he had taken leave of them, Quinney said with conviction: "He’s right. Posy she is, the little dear! And his lordship didn’t fail to notice, I’ll be bound, that she smells as sweet as she looks." After this incident the child was always called Posy.