Quinney supped simply at seven, and then he walked across the Cathedral Close, down a small street, known as Laburnum Row, and knocked at the door of a genteel, semi-detached cottage. The very respectable woman who opened the door drew down the corners of a pleasant mouth when she beheld the visitor. A note of melancholy informed her voice as she greeted him, but her sharp, brown eyes sparkled joyously as she said:
"Never expected to see you this evening, Mr. Quinney."
"I'm tired of doing the things that are expected," was the surprising reply. Then, with a flush, he blurted out, "Susan in?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Biddlecombe, leading the way into the parlour. "The child's upstairs."
Mother and daughter had seen Quinney approaching, whereupon Mrs. Biddlecombe had remarked, "It's all right. You smooth your hair, dear, and slip on your blue gown."
Meanwhile, Quinney took the most comfortable chair, and stared with appraising eye at the furniture. Above the mantelpiece hung the portrait in water-colour of a handsome woman, obviously a lady, as the word was interpreted by the grandmothers of the present generation. This was Mrs. Biddlecombe's mother, the wife of a doctor, who had been bear-leader to a sprig of nobility, accomplishing with him the Grand Tour. In her turn, Mrs. Biddlecombe had married a medical gentleman (her word), who, unhappily, was called from the exercise of his profession in a promising suburb to a place invariably designated by Mrs. Biddlecombe as his last home. Later, the widow, left in very humble circumstances, had married beneath her rightful station in life a certain George Biddlecombe, a small builder and contractor, of Melchester, who, failing in business when Susan was some five years old, had died of disgust. Since this second bereavement, Mrs. Biddlecombe supported herself and her daughter by taking in lodgers, cleaning lace and fancy work. She was a stout, energetic creature, not much the worse for the wear and tear of a never-ending struggle to raise herself to the position which she had adorned before her second disastrous marriage.
"The funeral was well attended," she remarked.
"The old man was hardly what one might call popular," replied Quinney.
"He'll be missed in Melchester."
"Missed, but not regretted," the son replied grimly.