But Jameson’s connexion with Beckmanns provided the crowning annoyance of all. Peter and Simpson had decided—as soon as the legal position became clear—that it would be ridiculous to stop importing the brand immediately. They must, of course, do their best to replace the goods with those of another factory. On the other hand, to give them up without finding a substitute, would merely mean turning over an important advantage to some less-scrupulous competitor. Still,—whatever the “Proclamation as to trading with the Enemy” might say about “firms domiciled in neutral countries”—Peter could _not_ get out of his mind that the actual owners of the concern _were_ Germans. Every Friday afternoon, as Simpson dictated his careful letter to them, ending with the old stereotyped phrasing “with kind regards, Yours very sincerely,” Peter would remember Heinrich Beckmann, in his heavy boots, his black tail-coat, his hard bowler-hat, iron-moustached and curt of phrase, gobbling oysters and swilling wine at Fortis’; would see young Albert Beckmann, fat, flabby, blond, over-manicured, frothing glass at his lips, eyeing the _Tänzerinnen_ in the gaudy night-club where they had celebrated the signing of the contract. “Huns,” Peter would say to himself—(the appellation “Hun” had just come into vogue)—“bloody Huns!” § 4 But in addition to this growing revulsion against the enemy—(dislike of the Germans had been ingrained in the man’s character since his first day in business)—the thousand emotional flea-bites of the period began to affect Peter. That he could be hearing whispers of the English-speaking spirit—the spirit that was even then driving Francis Gordon, nervous to the depths of his imaginative soul, into dangers beyond belief, dangers that had to be faced in cold blood and absolutely alone—never struck the Chairman of Nirvana Limited. He was conscious only of a Questioning; it seemed as though every one and everything asked him something, something he could not answer. The morning newspaper began that Questioning. It lurked, somehow or other, behind the war-news, the casualty-lists. More than one name which conjured up the face of a boy known at Eton, figured in those early columns. Challis minor, in his own house, who had held onto his position till the last moment: “dying,” wrote his Colonel to his mother, “as I am sure you would have wished him to die.” Latham of the Artillery, who had fought his gun single-handed till he dropped dead over the breech-block. Peter caught himself trying to explain to a shadowy Challis minor how impossible it was for certain people, people with responsibilities like his own, to join the Army. . . .