This time, no Patricia met him. Apparently his wire to her had not arrived. He looked at the clock above the archway; saw it was half-past two; and decided to go straight to the City. In the Underground, an elderly civilian insisted on talking to him; asked—looking at his high-laced boots, his soft cap, his bulging haversack—if he had been to the Front. “Just come from it,” answered Peter, lighting a fresh cigar. “You’re in the R.F.A., aren’t you? I wonder if you’ve ever met my nephew. No, he’s not got a commission. A sergeant, I believe he is. His name’s Tomkins, same as mine: but I’ve forgotten the number of his battery....” The conversation lasted till the train pulled up in the cavernous gloom of Monument Station. “Silly old ass,” thought Peter as he clinked along Gracechurch Street. “These people at home seem to think the R.F.A. is about as big as a platoon.” Pushing his way through the glass doors of the office, he bumped his haversack; vented an Expeditionary Force oath. No office-girl sat at the reception window. The racks in the duty-paid stock-rooms were quite empty; he passed between them into the back office; found Miss Macpherson, busy with ledgers and foolscap, sitting at Simpson’s old desk. “I didn’t expect you so soon, Mr. Jameson,” she said, rising. The war had altered the Scotswoman: higher pay had clad her in a well-cut skirt, a silk blouse, good boots and stockings; she looked almost comely with her dark hair, just graying, her firm well-moulded features, her keen brown eyes. “I’ve just been taking the bonded stock,” she went on. “There isn’t much of it, I’m glad to say. Almost everything is sold before arrival now. And the book-debts are low.” They discussed details; and Peter found himself amazed at her knowledge, her capability. “Mr. Simpson left a good deal to me at the end,” she explained. “He was ill for nearly three months before he died. But he wouldn’t have you written to about it. Poor Mrs. Simpson! I went to see her yesterday. She was so sorry you couldn’t be home to the funeral. You ought to go and see her if you can.” A girl brought tea. Over it, Miss Macpherson put her question: “What are you going to do about the business? Will it have to be sold? You don’t mind my asking, I hope. But it’s rather important to me.” “I’m afraid it will have to be sold, Miss Macpherson. You know about the partnership deed, I suppose?” “Yes. Mr. Simpson told me.” She finished her cup. “I could run it, you know—easily—till you came back.” “Could you?” Her earnestness appealed to Peter. This type of managing woman, bred by the war, was new and very refreshing. “Of course I could. It’s not a very difficult business.” The telephone bell rang. Miss Macpherson picked up the receiver; pushed the instrument across the desk. “It’s your wife, I think.” “Peter”—the voice came faintly over the wire—“I just missed you at Victoria. Shall I bring the car down to the office?” “Yes, do,” he answered. The little scene was—could Peter but have realized it—very typical of war: women working with and for men, driving cars, running businesses, doing a thousand jobs which would have seemed impossible two years since. But Peter Jameson had no sense of drama; he accepted new conditions, as most Englishmen, with nothing more than a mild surprise. “I wish you’d get me the private ledger, Miss Macpherson,” he said: and immersed in the “private ledger,” Patricia found him. As she entered, tall, gauntleted, small toque low on her blond head, he looked up from his work; rose to greet her. They did not kiss: they were not of the breed that kisses before employÉs. But there was no condescension in Patricia’s, “How do you do, Miss Macpherson?” “I shan’t be more than ten minutes, Pat,” Peter said. “You don’t mind waiting, do you?” She sat there, looking at the two of them, the man in soldier’s uniform, bending over the account book, the middle-aged woman with the fountain-pen—holding her love for Peter in abeyance, recognizing that this was “business,” a mystery beyond her scope. And with that realization came a little flash of jealousy against the other woman who could help where the wife must sit useless. Peter snapped-to the catch of the private-ledger; pulled the telephone across the desk; asked for a number. “Mr. Reid in?”—Patricia heard—“No. Mr. George Reid. Gone for the day. Confound it. Is he free at ten o’clock tomorrow? Right. Yes, Mr. Jameson, Mr. Peter Jameson.” He turned to Miss Macpherson, said “Do you think you can have those figures ready by lunch-time tomorrow?” received her affirmative; asked if she knew the names and addresses of Simpson’s executors; wrote them down in his note-book. “Ready now,” he told Patricia: and, as an afterthought, “How much petrol have you got?” “I filled up just before coming out.” “Good.” He looked at his wrist-watch. “Then I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll run down to Harrow to see Mrs. Simpson.” |