He passed slowly through the Cathedral Close, pausing to admire the spire soaring into a starlit sky, black against violet. He had left the Mitre at half-past eleven, but few lights twinkled from the windows of the houses encircling the Close. The good canons retired early and rose rather late, thereby, perhaps, securing health without being encumbered with the burden of wisdom. With rare exception all Melchester slumbered. Quinney, out of native obstinacy, felt astoundingly awake. He began to compute the hours wasted in sleep. He had quaint theories on this subject, which he aired at the club. It has been said that party politics left him cold, although he grew warm and excited over his own ideas. The Tories assured him that England was going behind, but their reasons, taken from pamphlets and newspapers, were unconvincing, if you happened to read—as Quinney did—the Radical counter-blasts. Ever since his memorable trip to France Quinney posed as the travelled man. The French, he contended, were prosperous because they saved money and time. They rose earlier, worked harder for more hours out of the twenty-four. Also, he had been much impressed by the French Sunday as a day of recreation as well as rest. The French did not need a half-holiday on Saturday, because they made a whole holiday of Sunday. Susan was appalled at this view, but Quinney used the argument with telling effect at the club. Pinker, the Radical grocer, was immensely taken with it. If cricket and football could be played on Sunday the British workman would earn another half-day’s pay. Multiply that by millions, and there you are! He strolled on to the Mel, and paused again, staring at that placid stream rolling so leisurely to the sea. He was rolling as leisurely to—what? The question caught at him, insistently demanding an answer. He realized, almost with a shock, that nearly seven years had passed since he married Susan. During that seven years he had doubled his capital. He was worth twenty thousand pounds at least, probably more, and his best years were yet to come. Mrs. Biddlecombe, it is true, was not so sanguine. According to her, prosperity in the present indicated adversity in the near future. "Joseph’s luck will turn," she would say to Susan in her husband’s presence. Finally, Quinney retorted with some heat: "Now, Granny, don’t you go on barkin’ your old knuckles over that. I ain’t superstitious, but long ago I had ’arf-a-crown’s worth o’ fortune-tellin’ from the Queen o’ the Gipsies herself. I’m to live to be seventy-six, and to bend the knee to my Sovereign." "What did the foolish woman mean by that?" "A queen, I tell you. She meant knighthood. Sir Joseph and Lady Quinney! What ho!" "Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty more like!"