“Yais—Yais—Quite a few of the nibs—Lloyid Gorge, I meet him. But—” Beneath the matting a discontented expression came into his face, and his voice took on a peevish note. “But I not meet your real great men—your Arbmishel, your Arreevadon—I not meet them. That’s what gives me the pipovitch. Have you ever met Arbmishel and Arreevadon?”
A strained, anguished look came into Mrs. Smethurst’s face and was reflected in the faces of the other members of the circle. The eminent Russian had sprung two entirely new ones on them, and they felt that their ignorance was about to be exposed. What would Vladimir Brusiloff think of the Wood Hills Literary Society? The reputation of the Wood Hills Literary Society was at stake, trembling in the balance, and coming up for the third time. In dumb agony Mrs. Smethurst rolled her eyes about the room searching for someone capable of coming to the rescue. She drew blank.
And then, from a distant corner, there sounded a deprecating, cough, and those nearest Cuthbert Banks saw that he had stopped twisting his right foot round his left ankle and his left foot round his right ankle and was sitting up with a light of almost human intelligence in his eyes.
“Er—” said Cuthbert, blushing as every eye in the room seemed to fix itself on him, “I think he means Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon.”
“Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon?” repeated Mrs. Smethurst, blankly. “I never heard of—”
“Yais! Yais! Most! Very!” shouted Vladimir Brusiloff, enthusiastically. “Arbmishel and Arreevadon. You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps?”
“I’ve played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry Vardon in last year’s Open.”
The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier.
“You play in ze Open? Why,” he demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smethurst, “was I not been introducted to this young man who play in opens?”
“Well, really,” faltered Mrs. Smethurst. “Well, the fact is, Mr. Brusiloff—”
She broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, without hurting anyone’s feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape.
“Introduct me!” thundered the Celebrity.
“Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr.—.”
She looked appealingly at Cuthbert.
“Banks,” prompted Cuthbert.
“Banks!” cried Vladimir Brusiloff. “Not Cootaboot Banks?”
“Is your name Cootaboot?” asked Mrs. Smethurst, faintly.
“Well, it’s Cuthbert.”
“Yais! Yais! Cootaboot!” There was a rush and swirl, as the effervescent Muscovite burst his way through the throng and rushed to where Cuthbert sat. He stood for a moment eyeing him excitedly, then, stooping swiftly, kissed him on both cheeks before Cuthbert could get his guard up. “My dear young man, I saw you win ze French Open. Great! Great! Grand! Superb! Hot stuff, and you can say I said so! Will you permit one who is but eighteen at Nijni-Novgorod to salute you once more?”
And he kissed Cuthbert again. Then, brushing aside one or two intellectuals who were in the way, he dragged up a chair and sat down.
“You are a great man!” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Cuthbert modestly.
“Yais! Great. Most! Very! The way you lay your approach-putts dead from anywhere!”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Mr. Brusiloff drew his chair closer.
“Let me tell you one vairy funny story about putting. It was one day I play at Nijni-Novgorod with the pro against Lenin and Trotsky, and Trotsky had a two-inch putt for the hole. But, just as he addresses the ball, someone in the crowd he tries to assassinate Lenin with a rewolwer—you know that is our great national sport, trying to assassinate Lenin with rewolwers—and the bang puts Trotsky off his stroke and he goes five yards past the hole, and then Lenin, who is rather shaken, you understand, he misses again himself, and we win the hole and match and I clean up three hundred and ninety-six thousand roubles, or fifteen shillings in your money. Some gameovitch! And now let me tell you one other vairy funny story—”
Desultory conversation had begun in murmurs over the rest of the room, as the Wood Hills intellectuals politely endeavoured to conceal the fact that they realized that they were about as much out of it at this reunion of twin souls as cats at a dog-show. From time to time they started as Vladimir Brusiloff’s laugh boomed out. Perhaps it was a consolation to them to know that he was enjoying himself.
As for Adeline, how shall I describe her emotions? She was stunned. Before her very eyes the stone which the builders had rejected had become the main thing, the hundred-to-one shot had walked away with the race. A rush of tender admiration for Cuthbert Banks flooded her heart. She saw that she had been all wrong. Cuthbert, whom she had always treated with a patronizing superiority, was really a man to be looked up to and worshipped. A deep, dreamy sigh shook Adeline’s fragile form.
Half an hour later Vladimir and Cuthbert Banks rose.
“Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst,” said the Celebrity. “Zank you for a most charming visit. My friend Cootaboot and me we go now to shoot a few holes. You will lend me clobs, friend Cootaboot?”
“Any you want.”
“The niblicksky is what I use most. Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst.”
They were moving to the door, when Cuthbert felt a light touch on his arm. Adeline was looking up at him tenderly.
“May I come, too, and walk round with you?”
Cuthbert’s bosom heaved.
“Oh,” he said, with a tremor in his voice, “that you would walk round with me for life!”
Her eyes met his.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, softly, “it could be arranged.”
“And so,” (concluded the Oldest Member), “you see that golf can be of the greatest practical assistance to a man in Life’s struggle. Raymond Parsloe Devine, who was no player, had to move out of the neighbourhood immediately, and is now, I believe, writing scenarios out in California for the Flicker Film Company. Adeline is married to Cuthbert, and it was only his earnest pleading which prevented her from having their eldest son christened Abe Mitchell Ribbed-Faced Mashie Banks, for she is now as keen a devotee
