“It’s very good of you to take so much trouble, Mr. Jameson. Very good of you indeed. But I’ve got enough to go on with. And my brother-in-law tells me. . . .” In her narrow way she was shrewd—with the shrewdness of the English middle-class. Business, taboo in Lowndes Square, had always been the staple topic of conversation at “The Limes.” Mrs. Simpson knew all about Nirvana, about Hagenburg, about the partnership deed; knew too, exactly what she wanted. And she wanted her money out of Jamesons; wanted it in War Loan. This, without any definite statement beyond, “She hoped he wouldn’t have to sell the business,” and “It seemed very difficult, his being at the front,” she made very clear to the astute mind of Peter Jameson. Yet she pressed them to have some tea, which they refused; pressed them to come again. The visit, the car at the gate, flattered her vanity. “Tom,” she said to herself, “had always thought very highly of young Peter. Tom would be glad that young Peter and his wife had been to see her. But Tom would not like her to leave his money in the business.” She walked to the gate with them; said what a beautiful evening it was; watched the car glide off round the corner of St. John’s road. Then she turned back to her lonely house, her lonely life. For Tom Simpson’s “mother” had only been a joke between them; and now, he would never joke with her again. . . . § 4 Instead of swinging the car left for London, Patricia drove straight past the Harrow foot-ball fields, up the Hill towards the School. Holidays had emptied the Georgian street, the red-brick buildings; the little low cake-shop at which they halted was quite empty. “I haven’t had any tea,” she explained, as they sat down at a clean table. “Sorry, old thing,”—Peter’s voice sounded gentler than usual—“I’m afraid I’m a selfish beast.” “Sometimes,” she laughed, “but I’m glad to have you back all the same.” A waitress appeared from the back of the shop. Patricia ordered tea for two. They wandered up to the counter; chose cakes, sat down again. “Now tell me about business,” she said. And Peter told her, a little bitterly, the whole tale. “I can’t see any hope of saving the show,” he ended. “Miss Macpherson thinks she can run it. Perhaps she could, if one had enough capital. But one hasn’t. So that’s the end of that. First Nirvana, then Jamesons—they all go the same way home. Serves me right for gambling, I suppose. But I wish I hadn’t let _you_ down, Pat.” “You haven’t let me down,” she flashed at him: and the sudden anger surprised them both. “Do you think I married you just for money? Do you think I want you to be like Rawlings? . . .” “No”—somehow her anger soothed him—“of course I don’t.” “Well then, why do you talk about letting _me_ down?”