Lady Caroom rose up promptly.  Molyneux groaned audibly.

“You shall play me at billiards instead,” she declared.  “I used to give you a good game once, and I have played a great deal lately.  Ring for Annette, will you, Sybil?  She has my cue.”

Sybil Caroom made room for Brooks by her side.

“Do sit down and tell me more about the election,” she said.  “Sydney is sure to go to sleep.  He always does after shooting.”

“You shall ask me questions,” he suggested.  “I scarcely know what part of it would interest you.”

They talked together lightly at first, then more seriously.  From the other end of the hall came the occasional click of billiard balls.  Lady Caroom and her host were playing a leisurely game interspersed with conversation.

“Who is this young Mr. Brooks?” she asked, pausing to chalk her cue.

“A solicitor from Medchester,” he answered.  “He was Parliamentary agent for Henslow, and I am going to give him a management of my estates.”

“He is quite a boy,” she remarked.

“Twenty-six or seven,” he answered.  “How well you play those cannons.

“I ought to.  I had lessons for years.  Is he a native of Medchester?”

Lord Arranmore was blandly puzzled.  She finished her stroke and turned towards him.

“Mr. Brooks, you know.  We were talking of him.”

“Of course we were,” he answered.  “I do not think so.  He is an orphan.  I met his father in Canada.”

“He reminds me of some one,” she remarked, in a puzzled tone.  “Just now as I was coming downstairs it was almost startling.  He is a good-looking boy.”

“Be careful not to foul,” he admonished her.  “You should have the spider-rest.”

Lady Caroom made a delicate cannon from an awkward place, and concluded her break in silence.  Then she leaned with her back against the table, chalking her cue.  Her figure was still the figure of a girl she was a remarkably pretty woman.  She laid her slim white fingers upon his coat-sleeve.

“I wonder,” she said, softly, “whether you will ever tell me.”

“If you look at me like that,” he answered, smiling, “I shall tell you—­a great many things.”

Her eyes fell.  It was too absurd at her age, but her cheeks were burning.

“You don’t improve a bit,” she declared.  “You were always too apt with your tongue.”

“I practiced in a good school,” he answered.

“Dear me,” she sighed.  “For elderly people what a lot of rubbish we talk.”

He shivered.

“What a hideous word,” he remarked.  “You make me feel that my chest is padded and my hair dyed.  If to talk sense is a sign of youth, let us do it.”

“By all means.  When are you going to find me a husband for Sybil?”

“Well—­is there any hurry?” he asked.

“Lots!  We are going to Fernshire next week, and the place is always full of young men.  If you have anything really good in your mind I don’t want to miss it.”