She had ideals for her Sam, but when she attempted to define them, they seemed nebulous, indeed, against his simple practice of expediency. He had his theory that what was expedient was just, and she--what was her theory except that his was not good enough for him? And his was in possession everywhere, established, honoured, received of all but a trivial minority. He thought with the mass and she thought mass-thinking was not good enough for him. It was difficult to explain. He wasn’t a criminal, he wasn’t even individual in thought or method; he played the common game, playing perhaps a little more astutely than the average, but keeping honestly within the rules. He followed the crowd, and she wanted him to follow the gleam. A gleam is indefinable, but she thought she had a chance because she was so much more grown-up than Sam. Business was a game of marbles, and girls do not play with marbles, but with dolls. He was not to remain for long with the delusion that he had silenced her in their first talk. There followed many other talks, although she was coming to the conclusion that talking would not do the business for her. It helped, it made a preparation of the ground, but it was stubborn clay in which he had his roots. Talking did not dig deep enough; she must uproot, she must transplant. “Politics,” he had said to pulverize her argument. “Another thing,” she told him, “which is not quite the mystery for women that it was. Politics, but--why?” And he replied with the word which had raised him to ecstasy. “Power,”; he said. “Yes?” she questioned. “Business leads you to money, money to politics, and politics to power. And after that? You want power--for what?” “Why,” he cried, “power is power.” “An end in itself?” “At least, it’s an ambition,” he replied. It was, and so had Ada had her ambition to be married, an end, _the_ end. He did not think of Ada, but he found it difficult to justify himself. He could not even tell her that he was a Liberal, because he had a decent hatred of a Tory; he wasn’t in politics for a faith which enabled him to endure their artifice; he relished the artifice, he was in with an axe to grind, but with no clear idea of the use he wished to make of his axe when it was sharp. Ambition, purpose narrowed to two letters--M.P. He wanted to be M.P. for Branstone, that Bran-stone might hear the voice of Branstone speaking in the House of Commons. She watched him slyly, and thought her leaven worked. “Of course,” she said casually, “it would be useful for your business if you were an M.P.” “Enormously,” he agreed, marching blindly into her little trap. “It gives prestige to any business.” “And completes the vicious circle,” she said. “Business takes you to politics and politics brings you back to business.”