Eunice now began to play better, and, as Ramsden was on the top of his
game, a ding-dong race ensued for the remainder of the first nine
holes. The Bingley-Perkins combination, owing to some inspired work by
the female of the species, managed to keep their lead up to the tricky
ravine hole, but there George Perkins, as might have been expected of
him, deposited the ball right in among the rocks, and Ramsden and
Eunice drew level. The next four holes were halved and they reached the
club-house with no advantage to either side. Here there was a pause
while Miss Bingley went to the professional's shop to have a tack put
into the leather of her mashie, which had worked loose. George Perkins
and little Wilberforce, who believed in keeping up their strength,
melted silently away in the direction of the refreshment bar, and
Ramsden and Eunice were alone.
* * * * *
The pique which Eunice had felt at the beginning of the game had
vanished by now. She was feeling extremely pleased with her performance
on the last few holes, and would have been glad to go into the matter
fully. Also, she was conscious of a feeling not perhaps of respect so
much as condescending tolerance towards Ramsden. He might be a pretty
minus quantity in a drawing-room or at a dance, but in a bunker or out
in the open with a cleek, Eunice felt, you'd be surprised. She was just
about to address him in a spirit of kindliness, when he spoke.
'Better keep your brassey in the bag on the next nine,' he said. 'Stick
to the iron. The great thing is to keep 'em straight!'
Eunice gasped. Indeed, had she been of a less remarkable beauty one
would have said that she snorted. The sky turned black, and all her
amiability was swept away in a flood of fury. The blood left her face
and surged back in a rush of crimson. You are engaged to be married and
I take it that there exists between you and your fiancee the
utmost love and trust and understanding; but would you have the nerve,
could you summon up the cold, callous gall to tell your Genevieve that
she wasn't capable of using her wooden clubs? I think not. Yet this was
what Ramsden Waters had told Eunice, and the delicately nurtured girl
staggered before the coarse insult. Her refined, sensitive nature was
all churned up.
Ever since she had made her first drive at golf, she had prided herself
on her use of the wood. Her brother and her brassey were the only
things she loved. And here was this man deliberately.... Eunice choked.
'Mr. Waters!'
Before they could have further speech George Perkins and little
Wilberforce ambled in a bloated way out of the clubhouse.
'I've had three ginger ales,' observed the boy. 'Where do we go from
here?'
'Our honour,' said Ramsden. 'Shoot!'
Eunice took out her driver without a word. Her little figure was tense
with emotion. She swung vigorously, and pulled the ball far out on to
the fairway of the ninth hole.
'Even off the tee,' said Ramsden, 'you had better use an iron. You must
keep 'em straight.'
Their eyes met. Hers were glittering with the fury of a woman scorned.
