Once even, the persistent old man waylaid Patricia alone; and she had to listen, for a long half hour, to his protestations: “You see, Mrs. Jameson, it’s like this. I know my cousin, Sam. He’s a waster. A good fellow, but no head for figures. And your husband had much better sell that business now. He’ll lose a bit; but he’ll lose more if he waits. Honestly, Mrs. Jameson, I’m not thinking only of myself—nor Sam neither. I like your husband. He’s a patriotic chap. And I’ll pay him a good price. I will _reelly_. Only he’s so obstinate. Won’t you use your influence with him, Mrs. Jameson. . . .” “The funny thing about Marcus,” laughed Peter when she told him of the interview, “is that he feels he’ll be doing me a kindness. Marcus isn’t a bad old boy at heart: but my word, he is a bore.” * * * * * Patricia, driving Londonwards through the rain, could not make up her mind whether the Bramsons had been a bore or a godsend. Falling in love with one’s own husband has its disadvantages! PART TEN GUNS, COUNTING-HOUSES, AND COUNTER-ESPIONAGE § 1 If ever man needed power of concentration on the immediate job, and, allied thereto, that particular quality only described by the crude Anglo-Saxon word “guts,” it was Peter Jameson during the two months during which the War Office dilly-dallied over his transfer from the 10th Chalkshire Battalion of the Line to 4th Southdown Brigade, Royal Field Artillery. The year’s figures and a conference with Reid confirmed the worst about Nirvana Ltd. Their export-trade had begun to feel the shipping-difficulties; dropped weekly. Home sales were stationary; tending downward. The thing had lost momentum. Without more capital it must continue to slow down, eventually stop. Capital at the moment preferred war-bonds to cigarette-partnerships. The Bank pressed for a reduction of overdraft. And “Pretty” Bramson, as Peter phrased it, had “barely enough spunk to endorse his salary-cheque.” So Marcus got his way. Peter fought him, pound by pound, and clause by clause, to the last farthing, the last signature. The agreement, as finally drafted, was flawless; the price, all things considered, a liberal one. But the gamble had cost, not including interest which the money might have been earning for years, ten thousand pounds—a third of Peter’s original fortune. In addition, it cost part of a man’s soul! They signed the ultimate document at Brixton: Marcus friendlier than ever; Peter, biting on an unlit cigar—the good gambler, taking loss with a smile. Afterwards, they walked the factory together, old proprietor introducing new proprietor—explaining this labour-saving dodge, suggesting that improvement. And nobody, not even Patricia, realized the bitterness fought down, the courage that had to be nailed to the mast. Bitter work, bidding one’s dreams good-bye!