James reeled.
“What!”
“I give up.”
“But—but—” James shook with emotion. His voice quavered. “Ah!” he cried. “I see now: I understand! You are doing this for me because I am your pal. Peter, this is noble! This is the sort of thing you read about in books. I’ve seen it in the movies. But I can’t accept the sacrifice.”
“You must!”
“No, no!”
“I insist!”
“Do you mean this?”
“I give her up, James, old man. I—I hope you will be happy.”
“But I don’t know what to say. How can I thank you?”
“Don’t thank me.”
“But, Peter, do you fully realize what you are doing? True, I am one up, but there are nine holes to go, and I am not right on my game today. You might easily beat me. Have you forgotten that I once took forty-seven at the dogleg hole? This may be one of my bad days. Do you understand that if you insist on giving up I shall go to Miss Forrester tonight and propose to her?”
“I understand.”
“And yet you stick to it that you are through?”
“I do. And, by the way, there’s no need for you to wait till tonight. I saw Miss Forrester just now outside the tennis court. She’s alone.”
James turned crimson.
“Then I think perhaps—”
“You’d better go to her at once.”
“I will.” James extended his hand. “Peter, old man, I shall never forget this.”
“That’s all right.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Now, do you mean? Oh, I shall potter round the second nine. If you want me, you’ll find me somewhere about.”
“You’ll come to the wedding, Peter?” said James, wistfully.
“Of course,” said Peter. “Good luck.”
He spoke cheerily, but, when the other had turned to go, he stood looking after him thoughtfully. Then he sighed a heavy sigh.
James approached Miss Forrester with a beating heart. She made a charming picture as she stood there in the sunlight, one hand on her hip, the other swaying a tennis racket.
“How do you do?” said James.
“How are you, Mr. Todd? Have you been playing golf?”
“Yes.”
“With Mr. Willard?”
“Yes. We were having a match.”
“Golf,” said Grace Forrester, “seems to make men very rude. Mr. Willard left me without a word in the middle of our conversation.”
James was astonished.
“Were you talking to Peter?”
“Yes. Just now. I can’t understand what was the matter with him. He just turned on his heel and swung off.”
“You oughtn’t to turn on your heel when you swing,” said James; “only on the ball of the foot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, nothing. I wasn’t thinking. The fact is, I’ve something on my mind. So has Peter. You mustn’t think too hardly of him. We have been playing an important match, and it must have got on his nerves. You didn’t happen by any chance to be watching us?”
“No.”
“Ah! I wish you had seen me at the lake-hole. I did it one under par.”
“Was your father playing?”
“You don’t understand. I mean I did it in one better than even the finest player is supposed to do it. It’s a mashie-shot, you know. You mustn’t play too light, or you fall in the lake; and you mustn’t play it too hard, or you go past the hole into the woods. It requires the nicest delicacy and judgment, such as I gave it. You might have to wait a year before seeing anyone do it in two again. I doubt if the ‘pro’ often does it in two. Now, directly we came to this hole today, I made up my mind that there was going to be no mistake. The great secret of any shot at golf is ease, elegance, and the ability to relax. The majority of men, you will find, think it important that their address should be good.”
“How snobbish! What does it matter where a man lives?”
“You don’t absolutely follow me. I refer to the waggle and the stance before you make the stroke. Most players seem to fix in their minds the appearance of the angles which are presented by the position of the arms, legs, and club shaft, and it is largely the desire to retain these angles which results in their moving their heads and stiffening their muscles so that there is no freedom in the swing. There is only one point which vitally affects the stroke, and the only reason why that should be kept constant is that you are enabled to see your ball clearly. That is the pivotal point marked at the base of the neck, and a line drawn from this point to the ball should be at right angles to the line of flight.”
James paused for a moment for air, and as he paused Miss Forrester spoke.
“This is all gibberish to me,” she said.
“Gibberish!” gasped James. “I am quoting verbatim from one of the best authorities on golf.”
Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably.
“Golf,” she said, “bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game ever invented!”
The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a means of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show James at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes shut, with a semicircular dotted line marking the progress of his flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There are no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror that froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears.
He had never inquired into Miss Forrester’s religious views before, but he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It would be incorrect to say that James’s love was turned to hate. He did not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend of the two.
There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then, without
