Our Mr. Jameson sat down again. The outburst had steadied his nerves; his commercial judgment revived. Inwardly, he laughed a little: it seemed quaint that his loss of temper should have brought the Beresfords to heel so quickly. But what he actually said was: “Compromise? Why the whole amount’s only chicken food.” “Damn dear chicken-food,” commented Maurice. “You’re asking a year’s profits. That’s about two thousand five hundred pounds.” He changed his tone. “Look here, Peter, your time’s valuable, so’s mine. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The indemnity under that lease of yours might run into a lot of money. Supposing we waive it, and give you a thousand in cash for the goodwill.” Pouted Guthrie, recovering his dignity: “That seems to me a very liberal offer.” . . . And at twelve hundred, Peter compromised. It was a weak thing to do, and he knew it weak as he did it; but time pressed, and somehow he felt sick of haggling. The old Peter, the Peter who would have fought up to the last ten-pound note, had left his patience at Ypres! But it was the old Peter who insisted on the immediate exchange of letters; who dictated the rough agreement to Guthrie’s pert blond typist; appended steady signature at foot. “And about the contract itself?” asked Maurice Beresford as the party, all smiles and handshakes, broke up. “You’ll have that sent out to you, I suppose?” “It won’t be necessary, Maurice. Reid has my power of attorney. You see”—our Mr. Jameson couldn’t resist a last crow over old opponents—“I never expected to bring you up to the scratch before I went away!” But Maurice only chuckled, “Well, there’s _one_ thief less in the cigar-trade anyway, Peter”; and insisted on accompanying him to the corner of Lombard Street. . . . § 4 A man’s money-standard is of necessity comparative. Five pounds is a fortune to the beggar; ten thousand a charity-subscription for a millionaire. But in Peter’s case money had hitherto represented more than mere coin to spend or save as the mood happened: it had stood for the measure of success in his career. So that, as he walked home through Lombard Street that fine April evening, he bore, in addition to the weight of his loss (and no man, pauper or millionaire, _likes_ losing money), another heavier burden—the burden of failure. The whole street, the gold-deviced signs that had hung three hundred years and more outside stolid buildings, buttressed on millions, the marble-pillared windows, the iron-shuttered entrances, mocked at such failures as his own; seemed glutted with money, money to be picked up by anybody with brains and nerve. He hurried through it; left the low black bulk of the Bank of England behind him; struck westwards through Cheapside. It was late, and most of the shops had closed. He slackened his pace to the slow dawdle of the man who thinks.