“A short memory,” Arranmore remarked, “is a politician’s most valuable possession, isn’t it?”

“No memory at all is better,” Molyneux answered.

“And your telegram?” Lady Caroom asked.

“Is from my indefatigable uncle,” Molyneux groaned.  “He insists upon it that I interest myself in the election here, which means that I must go in to-morrow and call upon Rochester.”

The younger girl looked up from her chair, and laughed softly.

“You will have to speak for him,” she said.  “How interesting!  We will all come in and hear you.”

Molyneux missed an easy cannon, and laid down his cue with an aggrieved air.

“It is all very well for you,” he remarked, dismally, “but it is a horrible grind for me.  I have just succeeded in forgetting all that we did last session, and our programme for next.  Now I’ve got to wade through it all.  I wonder why on earth Providence selected for me an uncle who thinks it worth while to be a Cabinet Minister?”

Sybil Caroom shrugged her shoulders.

“I wonder why on earth,” she remarked, “any constituency thinks it worth while to be represented by such a politician as you.  How did you get in, Sydney?”

“Don’t know,” he answered.  “I was on the right side, and I talked the usual rot.”

“For myself,” she said, “I like a politician who is in earnest.  They are more amusing, and more impressive in every way.  Who was the young man you spoke to in that little place where we had tea?” she asked her host.

“His name is Kingston Brooks,” Arranmore answered.  “He is the agent for Henslow, the Radical candidate.”

“Well, I liked him,” she said.  “If I had a vote I would let him convert me to Radicalism.  I am sure that he could do it.”

“He shall try—­if you like,” Arranmore remarked.

I am going to ask him to shoot one day.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” the girl answered.  “I think he would be a wholesome change.  You are all too flippant here.”

The door opened.  Mr. Hennibul, K.C., inserted his head and shoulders.

“I have been to look at Arranmore’s golf-links,” he remarked.  “They are quite decent.  Will some one come and play a round?”

“I will come,” Sybil declared, putting down her book.

“And I,” Molyneux joined in.  “Hennibul can play our best ball.”

Lady Caroom and her host were left alone.  He came over to her side.

“What can I do to entertain your ladyship?” he asked, lightly.  “Will you play billiards, walk or drive?  There is an hour before lunch which must be charmed away.”

“I am not energetic,” she declared.  “I ought to walk for the sake of my figure.  I’m getting shockingly stout.  Marie made me promise to walk a mile to-day.  But I’m feeling deliciously lazy.”

“Embonpoint is the fashion,” he remarked, “and you are inches short of even that yet.  Come and sit in the study while I write some letters.”  She held out her hands.