went off to Squashy Hollow and played there.”
Mrs. Fisher uttered a cry.
“You were there today and yesterday?”
In spite of his trying situation, the yeasty exhilaration which had been upon him when he entered the room returned to Bradbury.
“Was I!” he cried. “You bet your Russian boots I was! Only winning a cup, that’s all!”
“You won a cup?”
“You bet your diamond tiara I won a cup. Say, listen,” said Bradbury, diving for a priceless Boule table and wrenching a leg off it. “Do you know what happened in the semifinal?” He clasped his fingers over the table-leg in the overlapping grip. “I’m here, see, about fifteen feet off the green. The other fellow lying dead, and I’m playing the like. Best I could hope for was a half, you’ll say, eh? Well, listen. I just walked up to that little white ball, and I gave it a little flick, and, believe me or believe me not, that little white ball never stopped running till it plunked into the hole.”
He stopped. He perceived that he had been introducing into the debate extraneous and irrelevant matter.
“Honey,” he said, fervently, “you mustn’t get mad about this. Maybe, if we try again, it will be all right. Give me another chance. Let me come out and play a round tomorrow. I think perhaps your style of play is a thing that wants getting used to. After all, I didn’t like olives the first time I tried them. Or whisky. Or caviar, for that matter. Probably if—”
Mrs. Fisher shook her head.
“I shall never play again.”
“Oh, but, listen—”
She looked at him fondly, her eyes dim with happy tears.
“I should have known you better, Bradbury. I suspected you. How foolish I was.”
“There, there,” said Bradbury.
“It was mother’s fault. She put ideas into my head.”
There was much that Bradbury would have liked to say about her mother, but he felt that this was not the time.
“And you really forgive me for sneaking off and playing at Squashy Hollow?”
“Of course.”
“Then why not a little round tomorrow?”
“No, Bradbury, I shall never play again. Vosper says I mustn’t.”
“What!”
“He saw me one morning on the links, and he came to me and told me—quite nicely and respectfully—that it must not occur again. He said with the utmost deference that I was making a spectacle of myself and that this nuisance must now cease. So I gave it up. But it’s all right. Vosper thinks that gentle massage will cure my wheezing, so I’m having it every day, and really I do think there’s an improvement already.”
“Where is Vosper?” said Bradbury, hoarsely.
“You aren’t going to be rude to him, Bradbury? He is so sensitive.”
But Bradbury Fisher had left the room.
“You rang, sir?” said Vosper, entering the Byzantine smoking-room some few minutes later.
“Yes,” said Bradbury. “Vosper, I am a plain, rugged man and I do not know all that there is to be known about these things. So do not be offended if I ask you a question.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Tell me, Vosper, did the Duke ever shake hands with you?”
“Once only, sir—mistaking me in a dimly-lit hall for a visiting archbishop.”
“Would it be all right for me to shake hands with you now?”
“If you wish it, sir, certainly.”
“I want to thank you, Vosper. Mrs. Fisher tells me that you have stopped her playing golf. I think that you have saved my reason, Vosper.”
“That is extremely gratifying, sir.”
“Your salary is trebled.”
“Thank you very much, sir. And, while we are talking, sir, if I might—There is one other little matter I wished to speak of, sir.”
“Shoot, Vosper.”
“It concerns Mrs. Maplebury, sir.”
“What about her?”
“If I might say so, sir, she would scarcely have done for the Duke.”
A sudden wild thrill shot through Bradbury.
“You mean—?” he stammered.
“I mean, sir, that Mrs. Maplebury must go. I make no criticism of Mrs. Maplebury, you will understand, sir. I merely say that she would decidedly not have done for the Duke.”
Bradbury drew in his breath sharply.
“Vosper,” he said, “the more I hear of that Duke of yours, the more I seem to like him. You really think he would have drawn the line at Mrs. Maplebury?”
“Very firmly, sir.”
“Splendid fellow! splendid fellow! She shall go tomorrow, Vosper.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“And, Vosper.”
“Sir?”
“Your salary. It is quadrupled.”
“I am greatly obliged, sir.”
“Tra-la, Vosper!”
“Tra-la, sir. Will that be all?”
“That will be all. Tra-la!”
“Tra-la, sir,” said the butler.
Chester Forgets Himself
The afternoon was warm and heavy. Butterflies loafed languidly in the sunshine, birds panted in the shady recesses of the trees.
The Oldest Member, snug in his favourite chair, had long since succumbed to the drowsy influence of the weather. His eyes were closed, his chin sunk upon his breast. The pipe which he had been smoking lay beside him on the turf, and ever and anon there proceeded from him a muffled snore.
Suddenly the stillness was broken. There was a sharp, cracking sound as of splitting wood. It rang out like the report of a rifle, and the Oldest Member sat up, blinking. As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the glare, he perceived that the foursome had holed out on the ninth and was disintegrating. Two of the players were moving with quick, purposeful steps in the direction of the side door which gave entrance to the bar; a third was making for the road that led to the village, bearing himself as one in profound dejection; the fourth came on to the terrace.
“Finished?” said the Oldest Member, accosting this individual.
The other stopped, wiping a heated brow. He lowered himself into the adjoining chair and stretched his legs out.
“Yes. We started at the tenth. Golly, I’m tired. No joke playing in this weather.”
“How did you come out?”
“We won on the last green. Jimmy Fothergill and I were playing the vicar and Rupert Blake.”
“What was that sharp, cracking sound I heard?” asked the Oldest Member.
“That was the vicar smashing his putter. He had a two-foot putt to halve the hole and match, and he missed it. Poor old chap, he
