His golf library kept pace with his collection of clubs. He bought all the standard works, subscribed to all the golfing papers, and, when he came across a paragraph in a magazine to the effect that Mr. Hutchings, an ex-amateur champion, did not begin to play till he was past forty, and that his opponent in the final, Mr. S. H. Fry, had never held a club till his thirty-fifth year, he had it engraved on vellum and framed and hung up beside his shaving-mirror.
And Betty, meanwhile? She, poor child, stared down the years into a bleak future, in which she saw herself parted forever from the man she loved, and the golf-widow of another for whom—even when he won a medal for lowest net at a weekly handicap with a score of a hundred and three minus twenty-four—she could feel nothing warmer than respect. Those were dreary days for Betty. We three—she and I and Eddie Denton—often talked over Mortimer’s strange obsession. Denton said that, except that Mortimer had not come out in pink spots, his symptoms were almost identical with those of the dreaded mongo-mongo, the scourge of the West African hinterland. Poor Denton! He had already booked his passage for Africa, and spent hours looking in the atlas for good deserts.
In every fever of human affairs there comes at last the crisis. We may emerge from it healed or we may plunge into still deeper depths of soul-sickness; but always the crisis comes. I was privileged to be present when it came in the affairs of Mortimer Sturgis and Betty Weston.
I had gone into the clubhouse one afternoon at an hour when it is usually empty, and the first thing I saw, as I entered the main room, which looks out on the ninth green, was Mortimer. He was grovelling on the floor, and I confess that, when I caught sight of him, my heart stood still. I feared that his reason, sapped by dissipation, had given way. I knew that for weeks, day in and day out, the niblick had hardly ever been out of his hand, and no constitution can stand that.
He looked up as he heard my footstep.
“Hallo,” he said. “Can you see a ball anywhere?”
“A ball?” I backed away, reaching for the door-handle. “My dear boy,” I said, soothingly, “you have made a mistake. Quite a natural mistake. One anybody would have made. But, as a matter of fact, this is the clubhouse. The links are outside there. Why not come away with me very quietly and let us see if we can’t find some balls on the links? If you will wait here a moment, I will call up Doctor Smithson. He was telling me only this morning that he wanted a good spell of ball-hunting to put him in shape. You don’t mind if he joins us?”
“It was a Silver King with my initials on it,” Mortimer went on, not heeding me. “I got on the ninth green in eleven with a nice mashie-niblick, but my approach-putt was a little too strong. It came in through that window.”
I perceived for the first time that one of the windows facing the course was broken, and my relief was great. I went down on my knees and helped him in his search. We ran the ball to earth finally inside the piano.
“What’s the local rule?” inquired Mortimer. “Must I play it where it lies, or may I tee up and lose a stroke? If I have to play it where it lies, I suppose a niblick would be the club?”
It was at this moment that Betty came in. One glance at her pale, set face told me that there was to be a scene, and I would have retired, but that she was between me and the door.
“Hallo, dear,” said Mortimer, greeting her with a friendly waggle of his niblick. “I’m bunkered in the piano. My approach-putt was a little strong, and I overran the green.”
“Mortimer,” said the girl, tensely, “I want to ask you one question.”
“Yes, dear? I wish, darling, you could have seen my drive at the eighth just now. It was a pip!”
Betty looked at him steadily.
“Are we engaged,” she said, “or are we not?”
“Engaged? Oh, to be married? Why, of course. I tried the open stance for a change, and—”
“This morning you promised to take me for a ride. You never appeared. Where were you?”
“Just playing golf.”
“Golf! I’m sick of the very name!”
A spasm shook Mortimer.
“You mustn’t let people hear you saying things like that!” he said. “I somehow felt, the moment I began my up-swing, that everything was going to be all right. I—”
“I’ll give you one more chance. Will you take me for a drive in your car this evening?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? What are you doing?”
“Just playing golf!”
“I’m tired of being neglected like this!” cried Betty, stamping her foot. Poor girl, I saw her point of view. It was bad enough for her being engaged to the wrong man, without having him treat her as a mere acquaintance. Her conscience fighting with her love for Eddie Denton had kept her true to Mortimer, and Mortimer accepted the sacrifice with an absentminded carelessness which would have been galling to any girl. “We might just as well not be engaged at all. You never take me anywhere.”
“I asked you to come with me to watch the Open Championship.”
“Why don’t you ever take me to dances?”
“I can’t dance.”
“You could learn.”
“But I’m not sure if dancing is a good thing for a fellow’s game. You never hear of any first-class pro dancing. James Braid doesn’t dance.”
“Well, my mind’s made up. Mortimer, you must choose between golf and me.”
“But, darling, I went round in a hundred and one yesterday. You
