"I think I got on to the poetical side of politics," said Paul.
"What the deuce is that?"
Paul smiled. "An appeal to the imagination," said he.
When Colonel Winwood got in by an increased majority, in spite of the wave of Liberalism that spread over the land, he gave Paul a gold cigarette case; and thenceforward admitted him into his political confidence. So Paul became familiar with the Lobby of the House of Commons and with the subjects before the Committees on which Colonel Winwood sat, and with the delicate arts of wire-pulling and intrigue, which appeared to him a monstrously fine diversion. There was also the matter of Colonel Winwood's speeches, which the methodical warrior wrote out laboriously beforehand and learned by heart. They were sound, weighty pronouncements, to which the House listened with respect; but they lacked the flashes which lit enthusiasm. One day he threw the bundle of typescript across to Paul.
"See what you think of that."
Paul saw and made daring pencilled amendments, and took it to the Colonel.
"It's all very funny," said the latter, tugging his drooping moustache, "but I can't say things like that in the House."
"Why not?" asked Paul.
"If they heard me make an epigram, they would have a fit."
"Our side wouldn't. The Government might. The Government ought to have fits all the time until it expires in convulsions."