Peter’s Patricia was essentially a simple woman. The early training received from her father, her education, her first nine years of married life, had all taught her the necessity of “balance,” the advantage of reasoning things out for herself—but they had only developed, not altered, her original character: the matehood and the motherhood in her. This new love for Peter, suddenly (and as she now believed reasonlessly) conceived on the night he informed her of his decision to apply for a commission, had struck deep roots. But, as yet, it gave neither leaf nor blossom. Always, she felt conscious of it. Nearly always, the consciousness irritated her. To begin with, married women with completed families—she argued—ought to have got over that sort of thing. Secondly, there was no likelihood—“very little likelihood” corrected instinct—of the love developing into a mutual passion: they had become too set in their matrimonial comradeship for any such occurrence. And thirdly—this formed the main irritation—her sudden change of feeling towards the man was not _reasonable_. One might—she decided—hate a husband because he wouldn’t fight for his country. One needn’t on the other hand fall madly in love with him (after eight tranquil years) just because he decided to do the right thing. Besides, he hadn’t “gone out,” yet—perhaps he never would. For Patricia’s experiences in driving tired mud-stained men from the cold darkness of Victoria Station to their outlying homes, had taught her the sharp difference between training in England, however uncomfortable, and the rigours of active service: taught her that difference better than her brother Jack’s careful letters from the front itself. Resultantly, she arrived at the “Royal York,” (tooling the Crossley like a professional chauffeur), very much on her guard. § 2 Brighton-on-Sea’s first war-Christmas betrayed no lack of prosperity. Its hotels, booked up weeks in advance, its saloons, its piers, its theatres and its picture-houses palpitated gaiety. From their billets in Shoreham Town and Portslade, in Worthing and beyond Worthing, the Southdown Division poured in a constant stream of blue-clad men and khaki-clad officers: London sent flappers and chorus-ladies, middle-aged business men and elderly idlers, frisky matrons and demure maidens. The whole town seemed one strolling, dancing, theatre-going, drinking promenade. “Preston must be making a lot of money,” said Peter, as he and his wife took their first meal together in the crowded dining-room. “I suppose so.” She had never known him quite so absorbed. “Is there anything the matter, Peter?” she went on. “Lots. I’ll tell you after lunch. I wrote you about Alice being here, didn’t I?” “Yes, but you didn’t say where she was staying.” “At the Metropole. We’re to dine with them this evening. There’s a dance or something, I believe.”