The next afternoon, happening to encounter Peter in the bunker near the
eleventh green, James said:
'That was a nice girl, that Miss What's-her-name.'
And Peter, pausing for a moment from his trench-digging, replied:
'Yes.'
And then James, with a pang, knew that he had a rival, for he had not
mentioned Miss Forrester's name, and yet Peter had divined that it was
to her that he had referred.
Love is a fever which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time on
the address. On the very next morning after the conversation which I
have related, James Todd rang Peter Willard up on the 'phone and
cancelled their golf engagements for the day, on the plea of a sprained
wrist. Peter, acknowledging the cancellation, stated that he himself
had been on the point of ringing James up to say that he would be
unable to play owing to a slight headache. They met at tea-time at Miss
Forrester's house. James asked how Peter's headache was, and Peter said
it was a little better. Peter inquired after James's sprained wrist,
and was told it seemed on the mend. Miss Forrester dispensed tea and
conversation to both impartially.
They walked home together. After an awkward silence of twenty minutes,
James said:
'There is something about the atmosphere--the aura, shall I say?--that
emanates from a good woman that makes a man feel that life has a new, a
different meaning.'
Peter replied:
'Yes.'
When they reached James's door, James said:
'I won't ask you in tonight, old man. You want to go home and rest and
cure that headache.'
'Yes,' said Peter.
There was another silence. Peter was thinking that, only a couple of
days before, James had told him that he had a copy of Sandy MacBean's
'How to Become a Scratch Man Your First Season by Studying Photographs'
coming by parcel-post from town, and they had arranged to read it aloud
together. By now, thought Peter, it must be lying on his friend's
table. The thought saddened him. And James, guessing what was in
Peter's mind, was saddened too. But he did not waver. He was in no mood
to read MacBean's masterpiece that night. In the twenty minutes of
silence after leaving Miss Forrester he had realized that 'Grace'
rhymes with 'face', and he wanted to sit alone in his study and write
poetry. The two men parted with a distant nod. I beg your pardon? Yes,
you are right. Two distant nods. It was always a failing of mine to
count the score erroneously.
It is not my purpose to weary you by a minute recital of the happenings
of each day that went by. On the surface, the lives of these two men
seemed unchanged. They still played golf together, and during the round
achieved towards each other a manner that, superficially, retained all
its ancient cheeriness and affection. If--I should say--when, James
topped his drive, Peter never failed to say 'Hard luck!' And when--or,
rather, if Peter managed not to top his, James invariably said 'Great!'
