§ 3
Peter, who, unlike Bromley, had not quarrelled openly with Locksley, and whose experience of bossing men did not include being bossed himself, failed to realize the exact position. During the day, work occupied him: through the long evenings when they sat together in the lamp-lit study, his mind was busy with other problems.
He discovered himself, for the first time in his life, missing Patricia—not the woman Patricia, but the pal Patricia: looking forward eagerly to her letters. Murray had enlisted—she wrote. She herself was busy; had taken up volunteer war-work; driving soldiers-on-leave across London in the car. But she accepted his suggestion that they should spend Christmas together at the Royal York.
But Patricia was not the main problem. Deliberately, Peter had postponed decision on the Nirvana gamble till the completion of the year’s trading. But instinct already warned him of the worst. Reid’s dissected statistics revealed, all too clearly, a serious decline in the export-business. Home-trade held stationary—but could hardly remain so on their limited advertising. Bramson’s letters had lost “snap”: he deplored, without suggesting remedies, the increase of competition—especially from his cousin’s travellers. “The Pullman business is going ahead. They’re not cutting down their advertisements,” was the burden of his cry: a cry which did not deceive our Mr. Jameson.
Peter realized perfectly, had done for some time, the danger of employing a competitor’s relative. On the other hand, if it became vital to sell out, that very danger might be turned to advantage. Marcus Bramson would not let his cousin lose a good job (“and the best part of a thousand pounds,” argued Peter) if there were a chance of acquiring Nirvana as a going concern.
But the ease with which, he felt, he could dispose of the business was poor consolation at best. Although decision had been reached, and reached irrevocably, before joining the Army, Peter could not contemplate without emotion the cold fact of giving up his factory.
The thing had meant so much to him; meant much still. If only he could save it! But Arthur’s two thousand precluded drawing another penny of capital from Jamesons: and, though it was not impossible to secure money in other ways—on his assurances for instance—the gamble would be too dangerous. . . .
To Peter, considering these points over the wreckage of tea, and Bromley, plunged as usual in a book, entered—on an afternoon early in December—Jack Bareton of “C” Company; said, “Hallo, you chaps. Just thought I’d look you up,” and dropped onto the horse-hair sofa in the corner of the tiny sitting-room.
“Don’t see you round often,” commented Bromley. He pushed the cigarettes across the table, and added: “What’s the matter?”
“Locksley.” The newcomer’s voice was curt; but his eyes, the eyes of a fanatic, blazed. “Locksley, blast his dirty soul.”