The furnishing of the Dream Cottage occupied them very agreeably during the two pleasant months that elapsed before their marriage, but there were moments when Susan became exasperatingly conscious of immense differences between herself—as she was beginning to know herself—and the man she loved. Mrs. Biddlecombe and she, for instance, had nourished the conviction that the home being the true sphere of woman, it would be their privilege and pleasure to arrange it according to the lights, farthing dips, perhaps, vouchsafed to the middle class in Victorian days. But the Man of Many Surprises, as Susan called him, dealt drastically with this conviction, dispatching it swiftly to the limbo of unrealized ambitions and broken hopes. In those days, it may be remembered, popular fancy strayed wantonly amongst ebonized super-mantels, and cabinets with gilded panels upon which exotic birds and flowers were crudely painted. Aspinall's Enamel entered generously into most schemes of decoration. Fireplaces were filled with Japanese umbrellas. Japanese fans were arranged upon bilious-looking wall-papers, and Japanese bric-à-brac, cheap bronzes, cheap porcelain, everything cheap, became a raging pestilence.
Quinney's taste soared high above this rubbish so dear to the hearts of Susan and her mother. Afterwards he marvelled at the sure instinct which had guided him aright. Where did it come from? Why, without either knowledge or experience, did he swoop unerringly upon what was really beautiful and enduring, and at that time more or less despised?
Mrs. Biddlecombe had bought a book entitled, How to Furnish the Home with One Hundred Pounds. She read aloud certain passages to Quinney, who listened patiently for half an hour, and then snorted.
"You've taken cold," said the anxious Susan.
"That rot would make any man choke," said Quinney. "Makes me perfectly sick," he continued, warming to his work, as he encountered the amazed stare of the women, "makes me want to smash things! Silly rot, and written by a woman, I'll be bound."
"It's written by a lady," observed Mrs. Biddlecombe, "an authoress, too."
"It's written by a fool!" snapped Quinney. "We've Solomon's word for it that there's nothing so irksome as a female fool. This particular brand o' fool don't know, and never will know, the very first principles o' furnishing, whether for rich or poor. Buy good solid stuff. Don't touch rubbish! Rubbish is beastly. Rubbish is wicked. I've had enough of rubbish. Me and Susan is going to start right. And as for cost," he paused to deliver a slashing blow, "I'm going to put one thousand pounds' worth of stuff into my house!"
Mother and daughter gasped. Quinney seemed to have swollen to monstrous dimensions. Was he stark mad? Tremblingly they waited for what might follow.
"Perhaps more," he added flamboyantly, "and everything is going to be good, because I shall choose it. It's become a sort of religion with me. A fine thing like that K'ang He jar of mine makes me feel good. I can kneel down before it."
Mrs. Biddlecombe observed majestically: