"You never thought of mother," said Susan. The small woman looked rather pale, and Quinney marked for the first time the wrinkle between her eyes. Mrs. Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. Also there was an inflection in Susan’s voice which he recognized regretfully as an inheritance from the old lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to affirm with loud authority that he had left the care of the invalid mother to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had peached. He replied simply: "I didn’t." Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to her mother became startlingly strong. Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured: "She legged it out on to the lawn. Maria says she ran like a bloomin’ rabbit." "If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seriously." "She didn’t say ’blooming.’ I’m sorry, Susie. It’s awful, I know, but you needn’t glare at me as if I’d left the old lady to burn on purpose. And out of evil comes good—hey? We know now that she’s as spry as ever. Almost looks as if firin’ had cured her." "If you mean to make a joke of it——" He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly attempted to kiss her. Susan repulsed him. "What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!" "Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only of sticks and stones." "Come off it!" said Quinney irritably. Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to the shop. It was their first serious trouble. *III* When they met again two hours afterwards the wrinkle had vanished; and no allusion was made to this unhappy incident, either then or later. Susan was busy moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quinney was thinking of London, and fairly spoiling for the fight ahead. It would begin when he tackled Susan and her mother, and he knew that this first encounter would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be used as a weapon, an Excalibur in the hands of a devoted mother. After much pondering, he did an unwise thing—what might have been expected from a man engrossed in his own business, and fully sensible that he understood that business better than anyone else. He had always despised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan would argue for hours, repeating themselves like silly parrots, and evading, like most women, the real issues. He told himself that he would be quite unable to listen patiently to their prattle about country air and old friends, and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable moss. Why not make his arrangements without consulting them? Whatever they might say, he intended to move from Melchester. He had nailed his flag to the mast when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It streamed over his future, a Blue Peter.