"I, for one, refuse to accompany you to London."
"Sorry."
"Are you sorry? I doubt it. Susan will miss me"—she wiped away two tears invisible to Quinney, and her voice trembled querulously as she continued—"and Posy will be deprived of a grandmother at a time when her mind and character are being made or marred. I understand, also, that you are risking a fortune which is more than ample for a man in your station of life. It would appear also that you have taken this step in defiance of advice from the Marquess of Mel."
"I took it"—he drew in his breath sharply, speaking almost as solemnly as his very upright judge—"because I had to take it. Melchester is too small for me, too sleepy, too stoopid, too hide-bound. The most wonderful thing in the whole town is just like me."
"To what do you allude?"
"To the spire of the Cathedral. It soars, don't it? Can you see it laying flat on the ground? Can you fancy it asleep? It taught me to soar. When I was a boy, crawlin' at the old man's heel, I used to say to it: 'Gosh, you're well out of it!' And now"—he smiled triumphantly—"I'm well out of it, for ever and ever, Amen!"
Mrs. Biddlecombe rallied her failing energies for a last charge. Somehow she was impressed by this queer son-in-law. He confounded her. She remarked slowly:
"It seems a strange thing to say, but I have heard of spires struck by God's lightning."
"Maybe," said Quinney, rising; "but you can take it from me that this spire won't be struck because it's fitted with a lightnin' conductor."
He retired, chuckling. Mrs. Biddlecombe shook her head. She was utterly at a loss to determine whether Quinney was alluding to the Cathedral spire or to himself. If to himself, who or what was his lightning conductor?