He was enormously glad to have her with him: but far too occupied about regimental and other matters to shew it. The handsome woman sitting opposite to him—tight chinchilla motor-bonnet and plain Lovat-tweed tailor-made accentuated both figure and fairness—summoned many eyes in that room: but not her husband’s. Luncheon over, they settled themselves in the little apartment leading off the lounge; drew chairs to the fire: and he sketched for her the position as between himself and Locksley, Bromley and Locksley, the regiment and Locksley. Her limited experience of men could not grasp it. “But, Peter, it all seems so childish. Like a lot of boys at school. And surely, with people being killed every day, this is not the time for you others to quarrel.” “You’re perfectly right, old thing. That’s what I told Harold only last night. What makes me mad is that one man can do so much harm. Honestly, if it weren’t for Locksley I believe we should never have had any of this trouble. As it is,” he paused a moment, “we two have decided to get out.” “But isn’t that,” she said the words deliberately, “an admission of failure?” “I suppose it is,” he reflected. “But what am I to do? It wouldn’t be playing the game to accept promotion over a friend’s head.” . . . “No. I suppose not.” She began to realize that his seriousness had its reasons. “But the men?” she asked. “I know.” He grew very silent. In those three months Peter had learned a great affection for “B” Company, which he had watched grow from a mere mob to an orderly body; a body to be moved at will and by a word. Individuals too, he would be sorry to part from: Gladeney, Sergeant Atkins, his servant Priestley, “long” Longstaffe who started the choruses from the leading “four” in Number Five platoon, a funny little chap called Haddock, always untidy but always willing. “It’s best for them, though. Rows between officers don’t do the men any good. But you’re right about it being a failure, Pat. I suppose that’s what’s making me so mad.” Only then, did she quite understand. It _was_ failure: but failure excused by loyalty: loyalty to a friend, loyalty to his sense of playing the game, loyalty to that intangible thing—the spirit of a regiment, against which individuals do not count. “I’m sorry.” She laid a hand on his arm. He took it, rather shamefacedly: said “Come on, old thing. Let’s go out for a walk.” § 3 They walked straight out of the hotel into the arms of a voluble stout little civilian, with eyebrows like the horns of a stag-beetle, a blue silk muffler round his throat and a bowler hat, not quite clean, crammed down over his big head. “And how are you, Mr. Jameson? Very glad to see you, I’m sure. My cousin Sam told me I might run into you down here.” Peter introduced Marcus Bramson, owner of Bramson’s Pullman Virginia’s (“the cigarette you _must_ try”) to a slightly standoffish Patricia.