“I’m not sure, sir,” from Torrington, “that I quite approve of officers dancing in their khaki.” “I’m quite sure I _don’t_”—the Colonel’s blue eyes hardened—“but the ladies insist.” They stood chatting till the music stopped. None of the four had drunk too much: but each of them, according to his capacity, had had quite enough. Bromley detailed a South African experience; Torrington capped it with a story of the Retreat; the Colonel listened professionally. Peter had arrived at that mellow stage when he could regard the failures of our Mr. Jameson from a standpoint of pleasant detachment: in which state he decided that our Mr. Jameson was inclined to take life a little too seriously. During the remainder of the evening—except for the last “John Peel” which Torrington claimed—he and Patricia danced accurately with each other. . . . ----- [3] Victoria Cross medal. § 7 They walked home together, arm-in-arm, down the darkling sea-front. A moist breeze blew in their faces: and she clung to him. Their old-time friendship seemed to have renewed itself. The man felt supremely contented: the woman—a trifle off her guard. . . . And then, they found Marcus Bramson waiting up for them! He was prowling about the half-lit lounge, purpose in his eye; insisted they must come to his sitting-room; be introduced to Mrs. Bramson; have “one little glass of something, just to celebrate Christmas Day.” “Confound Marcus,” yawned Peter as—some hours later—he struggled sleepily between cool sheets, “it must be about two G. M.” “Half-past,” corrected Patricia, combing gold hair before the slanting mirror. She came over; kissed him according to custom; climbed into her own bed; switched off the lights. § 8 Peter’s leave lasted four days; and Marcus Bramson haunted every hour of it. They found him in the lounge when they came down to breakfast, still there—eager for a chat—when they had finished; they ran into him, asking for letters at the porter’s lodge, as they went out for their morning walk; he and Mrs. Bramson, an over-awed woman of the middle-fifties, met them on the Front; trailed them back to lunch; followed them to the Metropole for tea; sat next to them at dinner; pursued them to the Hippodrome; waited up for them late, prevented them going to bed early. On Boxing Day, when Peter and Bromley returned to the hotel from their first official interview with Colonel Stark, eager to discuss the arrangements made—the letter Stark had written to Andrews, the letters they must write to Andrews, their interview with General Blacklock, Commanding Southdown Divisional Artillery—it was to find Patricia wedged between Marcus and his wife, virtually a prisoner. Escape, except in the car—and it rained two days out of the four—was impossible.