Followed a long letter, querying the item of “furniture and fixtures,” alluding once again to the debated question of goodwill, suggesting that the book-debts should be guaranteed by the sellers, the stock valued by some independent expert. Followed another interview, a demand to examine the lease of the premises, and—(“I told you so, Reid,” said Peter when he heard of it)—a very tactful request for a copy of the contract with Beckmanns! Meanwhile Maurice insisted on entertaining Peter and Patricia to dinner at Claridges’: a dinner during which he assumed the deal already completed, and after which, over enormous cigars and exiguous liqueurs, he did his best to settle all disputed points in his own favour. “Horrid cynical little man,” commented Patricia after he had dropped them at Harley Street. “Oh, we’re all thieves together in the cigar-trade,” answered Peter. “If I were in Maurice’s position and he in mine, I should do just the same. He knows that if he can only play out time till my leave’s up, he’ll get the business at his own price.” “Well, I think it’s very mean of him.” “Don’t be so foolish, Pat”—Peter laughed the new bitter laugh she was growing to hate. “There’s no sentiment in commerce.” She thought of their mad happy Christmas together; and sighed. He had reverted to his old absorbed self, the Peter of Nirvana days: grim, concentrated, efficient. She was his chattel again, no longer his pal. That sentiment swayed him, that he hated parting with the “old business,” that his weakened resolution needed constant screwing-up to bluffing-point—Patricia did not realize. She knew that he was fighting a losing battle against time, felt dimly that his financial anxieties were more on her behalf and the children’s than his own. And for these things her heart sympathized with him: but her neglected love suffered, suffered impotently. Reason asked: “Why _do_ you love this man?”—and found no sure answer. Reason told her that he was hard, incapable of any but the most casual affection; that his fidelity indicated nothing but lack of temperament, that he would have been happier unmarried. But Instinct, ousting reason, replied: “And in spite of it all, you _do_ love him.” It took many years before Patricia, looking back on that dark week, realized herself one of those women whose love can only walk hand-in-hand with their _respect_; that whatever this man of hers might do or say, instinct, stronger than any reasoning power, gave her the key to his motive: and always, that motive was the same—a desire, voiceless but founded on sure conviction, to do the right thing. . . .