CHAPTER XI.
WHO THE DEVIL IS BROOKS?
"To be tired," declared Sydney Molyneux, sinking into a low couch, "to be downright dead dog-tired is the most delightful thing in the world.
Will some one give me some tea ?" 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.