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!

The Jameson position, too, required concentration. The partnership deed between Peter and Simpson—a deed by which in case of one’s death the survivor could retain all the capital in the firm, paying out only interest—had expired. Under the peculiar circumstances, Peter wanted it to continue as before, for the “duration.” He was heavily insured, heavily enough to make good the Nirvana loss: and the balance of his fortune, should he be killed, would be safe under Simpson’s management. Simpson objected. “In the unlikely event of his dying, with Peter still on service, who would manage the business?”

They compromised by renewing for two years, subject only to the condition that, if Simpson died first, Peter must pay out his widow in cash. “Payment to be made within twelve months of the valuation of the estate being completed.”

And then there was the irritation of Beckmanns. Try as Simpson would to replace it, many customers still insisted on the brand. Hartopp (geborener Hagenburg) in particular! Hartopp’s turnover had increased threefold. “How he disposes of the stuff,” said Simpson, “is a perfect mystery. I believe myself that half of the cases we ship to Copenhagen and Amsterdam for him, eventually find their way to Germany. But what can I do? The man’s got a Government export-licence—and I can’t stop him taking advantage of it.”

“How much does he owe us?” asked Peter.

“Five thousand at the moment: but I’ve got some big orders pending.”

“You’re sure he’s all right.”

“Absolutely.” Simpson wagged brown beard. “He’s paying at ninety days to the second.”

For the past year, thanks to seven warless months of excellent trading, Jamesons had made almost their usual profits: but Peter’s capital account—with the closing of the Nirvana gamble and the money lent to his brother Arthur—showed a big drop; stood at considerably less than twenty thousand pounds.

It seemed only prudent to try and let furnished the house in Lowndes Square. The Rawlings’, hourly more prosperous, would have taken it gladly: but Peter refused to negotiate with them. Eventually he secured as tenant from March quarter-day a prominent Belgian embusquÉ whose rent barely covered expenses.

Add to these circumstances the arrival of Arthur Jameson, demanding assistance of every kind from the loan of a dress-suit to the introductions necessary for a commission in the Flying Corps—and it will be seen that Peter’s civilian occupations (though he was honestly pleased to see his brother again) were neither pleasant nor unstrenuous.