They returned for tea in the lounge; and were unavoidably buttonholed by Marcus Bramson, looking shabbier than ever in a greasy tail-coat and elastic-sided boots.

“Mrs. Bramson would be so glad to know you,” he told Patricia, “but she’s lying down at the moment. So you won’t mind, Mrs. Jameson, if your husband and I have a little talk?”

He drew a chair to their table, began to gossip. Tea over, Pat accepted the cigarette he offered; leaned back in her sofa. They made a curious contrast: her husband, workmanlike in his khaki, cigar in the corner of his mouth, very deliberate, (it was the first time she had ever seen him talking business to a stranger); and the voluble little old man, wheedling, gesticulating,—but never missing a point.

“That cousin of mine,” began Bramson, “he’s always been a bit of a waster, you know. Good fellow, excellent salesman—but no head for money.”

“Oh, come,” began Peter.

“Nice of you to stand up for him, Mr. Jameson. Very nice of you, I must say. But I know him better than you do. Now, between you and me”—the voice dropped—“he’s not doing you any good.”

Much as Peter hated the idea of parting with Nirvana, he could not but appreciate Marcus’ opening.

The old man paused. “I always did wonder” he went on reflectively, “why you wanted to bother yourself with that factory. It isn’t as if you hadn’t got another business. A rich young man like you don’t want to trouble himself about making cirgarettes. Now Jamesons, that’s a good business, that is....”

“Trying to buy me out?” The attack came suddenly—and to Patricia, unexpectedly.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Bramson lit himself a cigarette. “I’m always buying businesses, I am.”

He waited for his opponent to speak; waited vainly.

“Well? What do you think about it, Mr. Jameson?”

“To tell you the truth,” prevaricated Peter, “I’ve never contemplated such a thing.”

To the woman-mind of Patricia, the conversation grew more and more fantastic; seemed like the game of cross-purposes and crooked answers she had played as a child. “Here”—she reasoned—“were two men, one of whom obviously wanted to buy, the other to sell. Why, then, all this finessing?”

Gradually, she lost interest; began to think of her kiddies. What a shame they should be left alone for Christmas. She blamed herself a little, her desire to be alone with Peter.... Six o’clock! And she hadn’t unpacked yet....

Both men got up to bid her au revoir: sat down again. She could hear their voices as she waited for the lift.

“You don’t want to be bothered with it, Mr. Jameson. Not now you’re in the Army. And I’d pay you a good price. I would reelly.”