She stalked on haughtily. She was flirting, deliberately flirting, with her own husband. And she felt a fool. Rather a delicious fool, though. Suddenly, he became aware of her; acutely, physically almost. . . . Then the custom of years overwhelmed both. “The trout,” remarked Patricia, “took the May-fly with a rush. . . .” He caught her meaning at once. “But you shouldn’t rag about that sort of thing, Pat.” “You deserved it. And besides, you lost your temper with me. That means a forfeit—fizz for dinner.” They had drifted back—neither quite realizing—to the early days of their marriage. “There’ll be plenty of bubbly tonight, without my standing any.” He began to talk about Alice’s husband. She countered with a relation of Violet’s sudden prosperity. Peter had not told about his quarrel with Herbert Rawlings: Pat objected to criticism of her relatives—even when she knew the criticism justified. His little mood of bitterness passed; leaving only a caustic humour in its wake. “Great man, that brother-in-law of yours,” he laughed. “I saw his picture in one of the illustrateds last week. They called him ‘a patriotic war-worker.’ I think. Something of the sort. . . .” § 4 They returned for tea in the lounge; and were unavoidably buttonholed by Marcus Bramson, looking shabbier than ever in a greasy tail-coat and elastic-sided boots. “Mrs. Bramson would be so glad to know you,” he told Patricia, “but she’s lying down at the moment. So you won’t mind, Mrs. Jameson, if your husband and I have a little talk?” He drew a chair to their table, began to gossip. Tea over, Pat accepted the cigarette he offered; leaned back in her sofa. They made a curious contrast: her husband, workmanlike in his khaki, cigar in the corner of his mouth, very deliberate, (it was the first time she had ever seen him talking business to a stranger); and the voluble little old man, wheedling, gesticulating,—but never missing a point. “That cousin of mine,” began Bramson, “he’s always been a bit of a waster, you know. Good fellow, excellent salesman—but no head for money.” “Oh, come,” began Peter. “Nice of you to stand up for him, Mr. Jameson. Very nice of you, I must say. But I know him better than you do. Now, between you and me”—the voice dropped—“he’s not doing you any good.” Much as Peter hated the idea of parting with Nirvana, he could not but appreciate Marcus’ opening. The old man paused. “I always did wonder” he went on reflectively, “why you wanted to bother yourself with that factory. It isn’t as if you hadn’t got another business. A rich young man like you don’t want to trouble himself about making cirgarettes. Now Jamesons, that’s a good business, that is. . . .” “Trying to buy me out?” The attack came suddenly—and to Patricia, unexpectedly. “I wouldn’t mind.” Bramson lit himself a cigarette. “I’m always buying businesses, I am.” He waited for his opponent to speak; waited vainly.