To do his common sense justice he had never had the least intention of attempting to. Without any prevarication as far as his own feelings were concerned, he had quite honestly chosen to serve Mammon. Having decided thus far, he banished the very memory of any other possible master. He did not exist for him. Mammon, in that it meant place, and power, and money, was the only god he wanted to serve. And now?— Well, of course, the Little Girl must go. At first he said it harshly, shrugging his shoulders and pursing his lips. It had only been a pastime all through, and, thanks to her own pluck and sense, it had been one of those rare, delightful pastimes that, ended suddenly, might leave only a gracious, enjoyable memory behind. He was glad of that. Somewhere in his heart, that was mostly impressionless India rubber, there had proved to be a healthy, flesh-and-blood spot after all. She had found it quickly—gone straight to it with the unerring directness of a little child. It existed still—would always exist for her. But in future the India rubber would have to close over it, and hide it from all chance of discovery. In future he must not even remember it himself. For that way lay weakness. No serving of Mammon could be achieved, whichever way he turned, with the frank, candid, clever Little Girl. And so she must go; and since it was inevitable, the sooner the better. Then had come the afternoon’s golf; and, without asking himself why, he had hidden from her that there was any change. Afterwards, because the impending finale made him desire her as he had never desired her before, he went into the pretty little sitting-room and kissed her. When he hurriedly departed, he remembered only that the kiss had been sweet. Also that evidently no rumour had reached her yet. But of course it would. Any moment of any day her newspaper office might get the news and publish it. He spent a wretched week, torn mercilessly by his desire to serve two masters. In the end, because he was a man who hated to be thwarted, he swore a violent oath, and said that he would. Then he sent Hal the urgent little note, and made his plans for the day. They all hinged largely upon his hope to get her to go to his flat in Jermyn Street, after that grill-room dinner. That was why when they met he cleverly took the bull by the horns directly he saw in her eyes that she had heard the news. He appealed, with insight, to her sense of humour. “If you look at me like that,” he said, “I shall punish you by sitting down here, in St. James’s Park, on the curbstone, and giving you an explanation before all London that lasts an hour.” “I’ve a great mind to keep you to it,” with her low, musical laugh, “and send Peter to bring a phonograph man with a blank record to take it down.” “And a dozen journalists with snap-shot cameras, and biograph apparatus, to link us in notorious publicity to all eternity.” “No; I couldn’t stand that. What is your alternative?”