Brooks laughed softly from his place in front of the open fire.  A long day in the fresh north wind had driven the cobwebs from his brain, and brought the burning colour to his cheeks.  His eyes were bright, and his laughter was like music.

“And you,” he exclaimed, “are fresh from electioneering.  Why, fatigue like this is a luxury.”

Molyneux lit a cigarette and looked longingly at the tea-tray set out in the middle of the hall.

“That is all very well,” he said, “but there is a wide difference between the two forms of exercise.  In electioneering one can use one’s brain, and my brain is never weary.  It is capable of the most stupendous exertions.  It is my legs that fail me sometimes.  Here comes Lady Caroom at last.  Why does she look as though she had seen a ghost?”

That great staircase at Enton came right into the hall.  A few steps from the bottom Lady Caroom had halted, and her appearance was certainly a little unusual.  Every vestige of colour had left her cheeks.  Her right hand was clutching the oak banisters, her eyes were fixed upon Brooks.  He was for a moment embarrassed, but he stepped forward to meet her.

“How do you do, Lady Caroom?” he said.  “We are all in the shadows here, and Mr. Molyneux is crying out for his tea.”

She resumed her progress and greeted Brooks graciously.  Almost at the same moment a footman brought lamps, and the tea was served.  Lady Caroom glanced again with a sort of curious nervousness at the young man who stood by her side.

“You are a little earlier than we expected,” she remarked, seating herself before the tea-tray.  “Here comes Sybil.  She is dying to congratulate you, Mr. Brooks.  Is Arranmore here?”

“We left him in the gun-room,” Molyneux answered.  “He is coming directly.”

Sybil Caroom, in a short skirt and a jaunty hat, came towards Brooks with outstretched hand.

“Delightful!” she exclaimed.  “I only wish that it had been nine thousand instead of nine hundred.  You deserved it.”

Brooks laughed heartily.

“Well, we were satisfied to win the seat,” he declared.

Molyneux leaned forward tea-cup in hand.

“Well, you deserved it,” he remarked.  “Our old man opened his mouth a bit, but yours knocked him silly.  Upon my word, I didn’t think that any one man had cheek stupendous enough to humbug a constituency like Henslow did.  It took my breath away to read his speeches.”

“Do you really mean that?” asked Brooks.

“Mean it?  Of course I do.  What I can’t understand is how people can swallow such stuff, election after election.  Doesn’t every Radical candidate get up and talk in the same maudlin way—­hasn’t he done so for the last fifty years?  And when he gets into Parliament is there a more Conservative person on the face of the earth than the Radical member pledged to social reform?  It’s the same with your man Henslow.  He’ll do nothing!  He’ll attempt nothing!  Silly farce, politics, I think.”