Brighton-on-Sea’s first war-Christmas betrayed no lack of prosperity. Its hotels, booked up weeks in advance, its saloons, its piers, its theatres and its picture-houses palpitated gaiety. From their billets in Shoreham Town and Portslade, in Worthing and beyond Worthing, the Southdown Division poured in a constant stream of blue-clad men and khaki-clad officers: London sent flappers and chorus-ladies, middle-aged business men and elderly idlers, frisky matrons and demure maidens. The whole town seemed one strolling, dancing, theatre-going, drinking promenade.

“Preston must be making a lot of money,” said Peter, as he and his wife took their first meal together in the crowded dining-room.

“I suppose so.” She had never known him quite so absorbed. “Is there anything the matter, Peter?” she went on.

“Lots. I’ll tell you after lunch. I wrote you about Alice being here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you didn’t say where she was staying.”

“At the Metropole. We’re to dine with them this evening. There’s a dance or something, I believe.”

He was enormously glad to have her with him: but far too occupied about regimental and other matters to shew it. The handsome woman sitting opposite to him—tight chinchilla motor-bonnet and plain Lovat-tweed tailor-made accentuated both figure and fairness—summoned many eyes in that room: but not her husband’s.

Luncheon over, they settled themselves in the little apartment leading off the lounge; drew chairs to the fire: and he sketched for her the position as between himself and Locksley, Bromley and Locksley, the regiment and Locksley.

Her limited experience of men could not grasp it.

“But, Peter, it all seems so childish. Like a lot of boys at school. And surely, with people being killed every day, this is not the time for you others to quarrel.”

“You’re perfectly right, old thing. That’s what I told Harold only last night. What makes me mad is that one man can do so much harm. Honestly, if it weren’t for Locksley I believe we should never have had any of this trouble. As it is,” he paused a moment, “we two have decided to get out.”

“But isn’t that,” she said the words deliberately, “an admission of failure?”

“I suppose it is,” he reflected. “But what am I to do? It wouldn’t be playing the game to accept promotion over a friend’s head.” ...

“No. I suppose not.” She began to realize that his seriousness had its reasons. “But the men?” she asked.

“I know.” He grew very silent. In those three months Peter had learned a great affection for “B” Company, which he had watched grow from a mere mob to an orderly body; a body to be moved at will and by a word. Individuals too, he would be sorry to part from: Gladeney, Sergeant Atkins, his servant Priestley, “long” Longstaffe who started the choruses from the leading “four” in Number Five platoon, a funny little chap called Haddock, always untidy but always willing. “It’s best for them, though. Rows between officers don’t do the men any good. But you’re right about it being a failure, Pat. I suppose that’s what’s making me so mad.”

Only then, did she quite understand. It was failure: but failure excused by loyalty: loyalty to a friend, loyalty to his sense of playing the game, loyalty to that intangible thing—the spirit of a regiment, against which individuals do not count.

“I’m sorry.” She laid a hand on his arm. He took it, rather shamefacedly: said “Come on, old thing. Let’s go out for a walk.”