“I’ve just been taking the bonded stock,” she went on. “There isn’t much of it, I’m glad to say. Almost everything is sold before arrival now. And the book-debts are low.” They discussed details; and Peter found himself amazed at her knowledge, her capability. “Mr. Simpson left a good deal to me at the end,” she explained. “He was ill for nearly three months before he died. But he wouldn’t have you written to about it. Poor Mrs. Simpson! I went to see her yesterday. She was so sorry you couldn’t be home to the funeral. You ought to go and see her if you can.” A girl brought tea. Over it, Miss Macpherson put her question: “What are you going to do about the business? Will it have to be sold? You don’t mind my asking, I hope. But it’s rather important _to me_.” “I’m afraid it _will_ have to be sold, Miss Macpherson. You know about the partnership deed, I suppose?” “Yes. Mr. Simpson told me.” She finished her cup. “I could run it, you know—easily—till you came back.” “Could you?” Her earnestness appealed to Peter. This type of managing woman, bred by the war, was new and very refreshing. “Of course I could. It’s not a very difficult business.” The telephone bell rang. Miss Macpherson picked up the receiver; pushed the instrument across the desk. “It’s your wife, I think.” “Peter”—the voice came faintly over the wire—“I just missed you at Victoria. Shall I bring the car down to the office?” “Yes, do,” he answered. The little scene was—could Peter but have realized it—very typical of war: women working with and for men, driving cars, running businesses, doing a thousand jobs which would have seemed impossible two years since. But Peter Jameson had no sense of drama; he accepted new conditions, as most Englishmen, with nothing more than a mild surprise. “I wish you’d get me the private ledger, Miss Macpherson,” he said: and immersed in the “private ledger,” Patricia found him. As she entered, tall, gauntleted, small toque low on her blond head, he looked up from his work; rose to greet her. They did not kiss: they were not of the breed that kisses before employés. But there was no condescension in Patricia’s, “How do you do, Miss Macpherson?” “I shan’t be more than ten minutes, Pat,” Peter said. “You don’t mind waiting, do you?” She sat there, looking at the two of them, the man in soldier’s uniform, bending over the account book, the middle-aged woman with the fountain-pen—holding her love for Peter in abeyance, recognizing that this was “business,” a mystery beyond her scope. And with that realization came a little flash of jealousy against the other woman who could help where the wife must sit useless. Peter snapped-to the catch of the private-ledger; pulled the telephone across the desk; asked for a number. “Mr. Reid in?”—Patricia heard—“No. Mr. George Reid. Gone for the day. Confound it. Is he free at ten o’clock tomorrow? Right. Yes, Mr. Jameson, Mr. Peter Jameson.”