Peter hesitated a moment—Simpson had always been rather hostile about Nirvana—then said, “I’ve been up there this morning. Bramson’s rather rattled. We shall have to go slow there too. It’s a pity the brand couldn’t have had another two years’ hard advertising before this happened. As it is—everything depends on how long the war lasts. If it goes on more than six months, I may have to find a partner. That means parting with a big slice of my shares. You see, I don’t feel I ought to take any more of my capital out of this business.” “No. I agree with you there. Though if it became absolutely necessary. . . . By the way, you won’t mind my saying so, but I never understood why you took on ‘Pretty’ Bramson. He hasn’t got a very good reputation in the trade. And then his cousin Marcus being a competitor. . . .” “Oh, he’s not a bad little chap.” Peter, like all good men of business, was over-loyal to his staff. “The only trouble is that he hasn’t got much guts. But he’s all right as long as you keep an eye on him. . . . Good Lord, it’s nearly three o’clock, and that poor devil of a chauffeur of mine hasn’t had his lunch yet.” “Had any yourself?” asked Simpson. It was the one detail of the day which our Mr. Jameson had forgotten! § 5 “And are we _quite_ ruined?” chaffed Patricia as they finished dinner the same evening. Prout and the Rawlings had taken the afternoon train to town, leaving her lonely and—to tell the truth—more than a little worried. “Not quite, old thing,” retorted Peter. . . . But that night, for the first time in years, he woke up suddenly; saw her sleeping peacefuly in the white bedstead next his own—and realized that his responsibilities were not exclusively confined to the financing of Nirvana Limited. PART FIVE DECISION § 1 Passed the first week—a week of rumours and counter-rumours, barren of certainty. Mealy-souled politicians,—protected by a Navy they had done their best to weaken—gabbled high words of hope. The few trained men, laughed at for years, departed silently about their business: the half-trained set themselves to learn. For already, the spirit of the English-speaking Peoples was astir. Slumbering, the spirit awoke: a blind spirit, conscious only of resentment, of independence mysteriously threatened, of Something Wrong in the world: finding its quaint vent in shibboleth phrases, in deep drinkings, in wagging of flags: but growing, growing always, not to be denied. Already, through the domino-cafés of London, at the long bar in the English Club at Shanghai, in dank bungalows of the Malay Peninsula, on Canadian ranches and Australian “stations,” there ran the Word: “I think I ought to go, old boy. Well, mate, are you going?” But no Word had yet reached Peter Jameson. The City held him. For the moment, the old game played itself on.