For the plant, irrigated and irrigated again with gold, began to grow; promised a great harvest. There were difficulties of course; but these only served to intensify Peter’s ardour. Tobacconists wouldn’t stock Nirvana—tobacconists must stock Nirvana, he would advertise until they were forced to. The export trade was hopeless, because one couldn’t get a reliable export-traveller—he, Peter Jameson, would do that part himself: and travel he did, from Christiania to Lisbon, from Aden to Shanghai, from Buenos Aires to Valparaiso. . . . So the thirty thousand pounds in Jamesons dwindled to twenty thousand; and the five thousand in Nirvana rose to ten. But already, they were “round the corner,” covering expenses. True that most of the capital was represented in the balance-sheet by that intangible mystery “Goodwill and trademarks”; true that Turkovitch grumbled and Sam Bramson, “Pretty” Bramson, the newly engaged sales-manager, required more and more travellers for the home-trade, seemed to do less and less work himself; true that old Tom Simpson began to shake his head at so much voyaging and successfully urged a heavy life-assurance: still—it grew, it grew; and Peter, working fourteen hours between the two businesses, felt success very near, gloried in it. . . . Meanwhile that resplendent person, Francis Gordon, wrote a “novel in verse” which excited some comment; married for caprice; lost his wife; wandered off, a not too disconsolate widower, round the world; lost most of his income; fell in love; renounced love; renouncing, found his vocation; and returned to England shortly before the opening chapter of this our romance, which now begins. * * * * * _To my American readers.—“Eton College” is what we call a “public school.” Boys go at the age of 12-13 and leave at the age of 18-19. Originally founded for “poor scholars”—it has now some thousand students who pay fees of about £300 per annum each._ _Gilbert Frankau._ PART ONE THE HOME AND THE OFFICE § 1 January, 1914. A cold, dry, foggy, London evening. The children—after much protesting—safely asleep. All the electric lights in the big first-floor double drawing-room—pink-walled, parquet-floored, elaborately, comfortably, but by no means artistically, furnished—glowing. A red coal-fire heaped profusely on the tiled, steel-fendered hearth. And, standing before the fire, firm fine hands smoothing the folds of her low-neck, black charmeuse evening-gown, Patricia Jameson.