"But he's not a faker. Really, you must purge your mind of that. He's an artist. Dealers, of course, buy his reproductions and sell them again as authentic antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for what they are—superb copies. They are so masterly in every detail that you won't know the copy from the original when you see both together."
"Oh, won't I?" said Quinney. "I've a lot to learn, and I'm learning something every day, but old oak is my hobby. I've handled it since I was a baby, and I shall know."
"We'll see," said Le Marchant, smiling. "What did you think of the Pardon yesterday?"
He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking it for granted that his opinion was worth something.
"Rum show! Very—French, hey? Praying hard all the morning didn't prevent 'em from getting jolly tight in the afternoon."
Le Marchant laughed.
"These are Bretons, Mr. Quinney. Celts, not Latins."
He began to explain, talking very pleasantly, with a knowledge of his subject which challenged Susan's attention. She liked to hear about people so different from herself; their quaint superstitions, their ardent beliefs, and the primitive simplicity of their lives appealed to her strangely. But she was quick to perceive that Joe was bored. His shrewd face wore an expression gradually becoming familiar to her. Later he would say that there was nothing "in" such talk. It didn't lead anywhere; at any rate not in the directions whither Susan and he were steering. Why couldn't Le Marchant talk about that Quimper pottery, those jolly old figures of the Saints and Saintesses. A man might pick up a wrinkle or two worth something listening to that. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet.
"Ain't we wastin' valuable time?" he asked.
V