He laughed so hilariously that Mrs. Biddlecombe held up a restraining finger. "We’re semi-detached, you know." "I’m rich enough not to care what Laburnum Row thinks or says," he declared. "What day will suit you to get married, Susie?" "Oh, Joe—this is sudden." "Sudden? I was tellin’ your mother that I had to go to France on biz, but I want you to come along, too, to do the parleyvooin’. Can you get ready in a month?" Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned, shaking her head. "You must wait longer than that." "Why?" "It’s customary." "Blow that! I want Susie, and while we’re in France the shop can be overhauled. You’ll keep an eye on it—hey?" "I wash my hands of any marriage entered upon in undue haste." Finally, he agreed to wait two months, not a moment longer. "But I shall order the sign to-morrow—’Quinneys’’—with letters cuddling up against each other. It’ll be made in London, quite regardless. Next Sunday and you, Susie, will take a little walk in and about Melchester. I shan’t ask you to pig it over the shop." "I shouldn’t mind that a bit." "But I should. I’m marrying a lady, one of the best, and I’ll start the thing in style, just bang up." "A semi-detached?" "Lord, no! Wouldn’t hurt your mother’s feelin’s for worlds, but a semi-detached ain’t private enough for me. The neighbours might hear me yellin’ when Susie pulls my hair." Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically. "I’m going to open a bottle of my ginger cordial," she said solemnly. As the door closed behind her, Quinney exclaimed, "Now, Susie, you jump on my knee. I want to tell you that I’m the happiest man on earth." He spoke in a tone of absolute conviction. *CHAPTER II* *THE DREAM COTTAGE* *I* Melchester, although urban in the strict sense of the word, was sweetly fragrant of the country. Mel Street, except on Sundays, was always more or less blocked with country wagons and carts loaded with Melshire cheeses and butter and cream and eggs. Melshire bacon is famous the world over. There were no factories; and admittedly the town depended upon the surrounding country, which included wind-swept downs, and pleasant valleys, and many woods full of pheasants, and languid streams full of coarse fish. Essentially a country town which had fallen asleep in the Middle Ages, and went on slumbering, like a hale old man who has dined well. The curates and minor canons struggled against this somnolence. Vice might be found in many of the back streets, vice half-drunk, passive, Laodicean, hardly ever rampageous, save on such rare occasions as when the military were camping just outside the moss-grown walls.