"He was earning twenty-five bob. I shall turn him loose on those spinets." Most people know something about Quinney’s spinets transformed by the hand of the skilful James into writing-desks, sideboards, and dressing-tables. The spinets brought many customers to Soho Square. "Stock booming?" said Tomlin. "It is," said Quinney. He added reflectively: "I sold a spinet to-day, for which I gave fifteen shillings, for just the same number o’ pounds. James put in just one week on it. That’s all, by Gum!" Some dealers maintain that Quinney made his reputation with spinets, inasmuch as he sold more of them for a couple of years than the trade put together. But he himself believes that his Waterford glass brought the right customers—the famous collectors who buy little, but talk and write much. They liked Quinney because he was so keen; and he never grudged the time spent in showing his wares to non-buyers. "They tell others," he observed to Susan. "No ’ad.’ can beat that." He had other dodges to capture trade. It became known that he charged nothing for giving his opinion upon specimens submitted to him. And he had an endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets within a few months or weeks of the deal, offering an advance on the price paid, a "nice little profit," invariably refused. "Bless ’em! It warms their hearts to think they’ve made a sound investment." "How surprised and disappointed you’d be, Joe, if they accepted your offer!" "Right you are, Susie; but there’s little fear of that, my girl." When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney would adopt an air of guileless indifference, which was likely to provoke the remark: "Where is Mr. Quinney?" "I’m Quinney. Like to have a look round? You may see something you fancy." "That’s a nice pie-crust table." "It’s a gem. Cheap, too." Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like note. James would appear from below. "Where’s the receipted bill for this table?" The bill was produced and shown to the stranger. "See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five weeks ago. Look at the date. You shall have it for six pounds, and, by Gum! I’ll make you this offer. You can return it to me any day you like within a year, and I’ll give you five pound ten for it. How’s that, as between man and man?" These seemingly artless methods captivated the "think-it-overs" and the "rather-nicers," who frequent curiosity shops in ever-increasing numbers. Mothers brought daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical information. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair because it was so useful an object-lesson to young and inquiring minds. "Look at that, madam," he would say. Perhaps the lady would murmur softly: "It is rather nice, isn’t it?" And the flapper would exclaim enthusiastically: "Mumsie, it’s perfectly lovely!"