"A bit thick!" said Quinney.
"Joe!"
"But, isn't it? Let's face the facts. You spend a lot o' time away from home, away from Posy. Losin' your nice fresh colour, you are! And I'm losin' my appetite for the good meals I used to have."
"But mother wants me. And any moment——"
"So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here, I've a plan—the only plan. I simply won't have you trapesin' round to Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to pack up and come to us."
Alas! poor Susan!
She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor.
Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. "Let me die here, Joseph." Quinney used the clinching argument.
"You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the sad job we'd have gettin' you down them narrow stairs. And we never could receive all your friends in such a small parlour."
"That's true," sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. "There's a lot in what you say, Joseph."