"I'm climbin'!" he muttered to himself.
As he replaced the "fake" in the cabinet, consoling himself with the reflection that he could easily resell it at the price he had paid, he smelt fried fish. Extremely annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where Maria was caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying mackerel at six o'clock.
"What's the meaning o' this?"
Maria answered tartly:
"Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe."
She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to glare at him, as if resenting his appearance in his own kitchen as an unpardonable intrusion. Quinney said violently, not sorry to let off steam:
"What the hell d'ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my supper at seven, and you know it!"
Maria tossed her head.
"You'll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe's orders. I shall give notice if you swear at me."
He fled—vanquished by another woman. At the door he fired a parting shot: