“Hello, Daddy,” they chorussed, and romped over to be kissed. “Where have you been, Daddy?” asked Primula. “Germany.” “Where’s Germany?” They catechized him for a few minutes; informed him of their own well-being, of a train recently purchased; kissed their mother; and hurried off—having tasks to perform, serious tasks with hoops and sticks, in which their parents had no part. In concentration on the immediate job, Peter’s kiddies were uncannily like their father. “I must be off to the office,” he announced as soon as they were out of the room. “Anything on for tonight?” “No, dear.” “Right. I may be a little late. About seven, I expect. . . .” “He’s very—American,” thought Pat, as she watched him stride off, inevitable cigar in his mouth, towards the Tube. For Patricia, like most English people at the time, recognized only two classes of Americans—the over-worked rich and the idle rich. Of the true America, of the people with ideals, the quiet folk who are found neither at the Ritz Carlton nor in the cabaret, she was utterly ignorant. . . . “He’s a splendid pal,” said Reason. But, in Reason’s despite, instinct wished that he had remembered to kiss her good-bye. § 3 As the Tube jerked him spasmodically to Bank station Peter’s mind ran over the clauses of his new contract; pondered how best to exploit it. This absolute control of the Beckmann brand gave a new interest to the Jameson business; and with that interest, came a little flash of sentiment. He remembered his first year in the City, Tom Simpson’s doubting-Thomas attitude to a College boy, his father’s shrewd help. . . . But the Mr. Jameson who pushed his way through the swing-doors of 24 Lime Street and down the dark passage to the warehouse, was very far from appearing a sentimentalist. “Morning, Parkins,” he said to the young clerk who looked up at him from the desk in the outside office—glass-panelled, electric-lit, heated by a glowing gas-stove. “Good morning, Sir,” answered the boy. “Mr. Simpson inside?” “Yes, Sir.” Peter passed on through the warehouse; cast a rapid eye over the high wooden racks piled with cigar-boxes, at the Triplex glass sky-lights, on George the old warehouseman who was pottering about, duster-in-hand. “Morning, George. How’s the rheumatism?” “Thank you, Mister Peter, I can’t complain. And are you all right, Sir?” “Never better, George,” said our Mr. Jameson; and added (to himself) “_He_ won’t last much longer. I must talk to Simpson about pensioning him off. Two quid a week, I suppose. Extravagance! but the old chap’s earned his last bit of comfort. . . .”