He said as much to Tomlin next day. They were lunching together in an old-fashioned eating-house just off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright upon wooden benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. Tomlin was the host, and he had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to follow, and a bottle of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto that Quinney said to himself: "Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appetite!" Warmed into candid speech by this fine old English food and drink, Tomlin said thickly: "A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won’t be in the Bankruptcy Court!"—and he chuckled grossly. Tomlin’s place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong end of the Fulham Road, but he was talking of moving to Bond Street. Tomlin reckoned himself to be one of the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty voice: "You’re a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a friend." "There’s a place for me in London," repeated Quinney. "Where?" "Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and Long Acre." "’Ow about rent?" "’Tisn’t the rent that worries me." "Customers?" "That’s right—customers. The business will have to be built up slowly, because I mean to specialize." "In what?" "Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furniture." "You’ll starve." "I mean to have one other department which may keep the pot boiling." "Give it a name, Joe." "Not yet." "My first and last word to you is: Go back to Melchester and stay there." Tomlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his company. But he wanted the London man to predict disaster in his raucous tones. Success would taste the sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tomlin, to such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his judgment. She had never forgiven his tale of a table with a broken leg. The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quinney walked to Soho Square, lit a better cigar than Tomlin had given to him, and stared at an ancient house with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon which were inscribed the exciting words, "To Let." The mansion—for it was thus styled—had challenged his attention and interest two days before. Tomlin would have ridiculed the idea of taking such a house, and turning it into a shop, but Tomlin was a tradesman, whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist. The house was of the right period—early Georgian from garret to cellar. Quinney went over it.