Meanwhile, Peter and Bromley—ignoring though quite conscious of Locksley’s growing animosity—went on with their jobs. The two friends billeted at a low white cottage in the village street, about a hundred yards from the Mess—now established in two parlours and a long, bare dining-room at “The Feathers.” Bromley’s prophecy about Locksley bringing in his own pals was already coming true; they arrived almost daily, and the War Office added aspirants of its own. By the first week in December, officers numbered fifty. Inevitably, cliques formed. The tiny differences of English “caste” (imperceptible to a foreigner) drew these together, separated those. Still, with few exceptions, all were keen. Without Locksley, Andrews might have driven them comfortably; made his selection at leisure; jettisoning the less trained when the Battalion proceeded overseas. But Locksley-Jones, an intriguer by instinct rather than design, shrewd without character, self-seeker and not patriot, made harmony impossible. One by one, he succeeded in securing the promotion of his favourites, posting them over the heads of men like Fanshawe and Bareton; who grumbled but carried on—loyal to their men at all personal costs. So far, however, Major Fox-Goodwin had prevented any such interference with “B” Company. But the average Englishman’s distaste for trouble prevented him from forcing-through Bromley’s promotion to Captain. § 3 Peter, who, unlike Bromley, had not quarrelled openly with Locksley, and whose experience of bossing men did not include being bossed himself, failed to realize the exact position. During the day, work occupied him: through the long evenings when they sat together in the lamp-lit study, his mind was busy with other problems. He discovered himself, for the first time in his life, missing Patricia—not the woman Patricia, but the pal Patricia: looking forward eagerly to her letters. Murray had enlisted—she wrote. She herself was busy; had taken up volunteer war-work; driving soldiers-on-leave across London in the car. But she accepted his suggestion that they should spend Christmas together at the Royal York. But Patricia was not the main problem. Deliberately, Peter had postponed decision on the Nirvana gamble till the completion of the year’s trading. But instinct already warned him of the worst. Reid’s dissected statistics revealed, all too clearly, a serious decline in the export-business. Home-trade held stationary—but could hardly remain so on their limited advertising. Bramson’s letters had lost “snap”: he deplored, without suggesting remedies, the increase of competition—especially from his cousin’s travellers. “The Pullman business is going ahead. They’re not cutting down _their_ advertisements,” was the burden of his cry: a cry which did not deceive our Mr. Jameson.