“Absurd! He loves you devotedly.”
“I’m afraid so. Only the other day I dropped one of his best vases, and he just smiled and said it didn’t matter.”
“I can give you even better proof than that. This morning Mortimer came to me and asked me to give him secret lessons in golf.”
“Golf! But he despises golf.”
“Exactly. But he is going to learn it for your sake.”
“But why secret lessons?”
“Because he wants to keep it a surprise for your birthday. Now can you doubt his love?”
“I am not worthy of him!” she whispered.
The words gave me an idea.
“Suppose,” I said, “we could convince Mortimer of that!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Suppose, for instance, he could be made to believe that you were, let us say, a dipsomaniac.”
She shook her head. “He knows that already.”
“What!”
“Yes; I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep.”
“I mean a secret drinker.”
“Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker.”
“Then a drug-fiend?” I suggested, hopefully.
“I hate medicine.”
“I have it!” I said. “A kleptomaniac.”
“What is that?”
“A person who steals things.”
“Oh, that’s horrid.”
“Not at all. It’s a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don’t know you do it.”
“But, if I don’t know I do it, how do I know I do it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don’t know?”
“You don’t tell him. I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow that you called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and”—I glanced about the room—“my silver matchbox.”
“I’d rather have that little vinaigrette.”
“You don’t get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen?”
“Mortimer will hit you with a cleek.”
“Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he will do is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny the foul charge.”
“And then?”
“Then you admit it and release him from his engagement.”
She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made an impression.
“I think it’s a splendid idea. Thank you very much.” She rose and moved to the door. “I knew you would suggest something wonderful.” She hesitated. “You don’t think it would make it sound more plausible if I really took the vinaigrette?” she added, a little wistfully.
“It would spoil everything,” I replied, firmly, as I reached for the vinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk.
She was silent for a moment, and her glance fell on the carpet. That, however, did not worry me. It was nailed down.
“Well, goodbye,” she said.
“Au revoir,” I replied. “I am meeting Mortimer at six-thirty tomorrow. You may expect us round at your house at about eight.”
Mortimer was punctual at the tryst next morning. When I reached the tenth tee he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and I handed him a driver, outlined the essentials of grip and swing, and bade him go to it.
“It seems a simple game,” he said, as he took his stance. “You’re sure it’s fair to have the ball sitting up on top of a young sand-hill like this?”
“Perfectly fair.”
“I mean, I don’t want to be coddled because I’m a beginner.”
“The ball is always teed up for the drive,” I assured him.
“Oh, well, if you say so. But it seems to me to take all the element of sport out of the game. Where do I hit it?”
“Oh, straight ahead.”
“But isn’t it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there?”
He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down the fairway.
“In that case,” I replied, “the owner comes out in his pyjamas and offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar.”
He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball. Then he paused again.
“Isn’t there something you say before you start?” he asked. “ ‘Five,’ or something?”
“You may say ‘Fore!’ if it makes you feel any easier. But it isn’t necessary.”
“If I am going to learn this silly game,” said Mortimer, firmly, “I am going to learn it right. Fore!”
I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginner without something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a mass of shapeless clay. I experience the emotions of a creator. Here, I say to myself, is a semi-sentient being into whose soulless carcass I am breathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, a mere clod. A moment hence he will be a golfer.
While I was still occupied with these meditations Mortimer swung at the ball. The club, whizzing down, brushed the surface of the rubber sphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with a slight slice on it.
“Damnation!” said Mortimer, unravelling himself.
I nodded approvingly. His drive had not been anything to write to the golfing journals about, but he was picking up the technique of the game.
“What happened then?”
I told him in a word.
“Your stance was wrong, and your grip was wrong, and you moved your head, and swayed your body, and took your eye off the ball, and pressed, and forgot to use your wrists, and swung back too fast, and let the hands get ahead of the club, and lost your balance, and omitted to pivot on the ball of the left foot, and bent your right knee.”
He was silent for a moment.
“There is more in this pastime,” he said, “than the casual observer would suspect.”
I have noticed, and I suppose other people have noticed, that in the golf education of every man there is a definite point at which he may be said to have crossed the dividing line—the Rubicon, as it were—that separates the golfer from the non-golfer. This moment comes immediately after his first good drive. In the ninety minutes in which I instructed Mortimer Sturgis that morning in the rudiments of the game, he made every variety of drive known to science; but it was not till we were about to leave that he made a good
