Your true golfer is a man who, knowing that life is short andperfection hard to attain, neglects no opportunity of practisinghis chosen sport, allowing neither wind nor weather nor anyexternal influence to keep him from it. There is a story, with anexcellent moral lesson, of a golfer whose wife had determined toleave him for ever. "Will nothing alter your decision?" he says.
"Will nothing induce you to stay? Well, then, while you're packing,I think I'll go out on the lawn and rub up my putting a bit."George Bevan was of this turn of mind. He might be in love; romancemight have sealed him for her own; but that was no reason forblinding himself to the fact that his long game was bound to sufferif he neglected to keep himself up to the mark. His first act onarriving at Belpher village had been to ascertain whether there wasa links in the neighbourhood; and thither, on the morning after hisvisit to the castle and the delivery of the two notes, he repaired.
At the hour of the day which he had selected the club-house wasempty, and he had just resigned himself to a solitary game, when,with a whirr and a rattle, a grey racing-car drove up, and from itemerged the same long young man whom, a couple of days earlier, hehad seen wriggle out from underneath the same machine. It wasReggie Byng's habit also not to allow anything, even love, tointerfere with golf; and not even the prospect of hanging about thecastle grounds in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice Faradayand exchanging timorous words with her had been enough to keep himfrom the links.
Reggie surveyed George with a friendly eye. He had a dimrecollection of having seen him before somewhere at some time orother, and Reggie had the pleasing disposition which caused him torank anybody whom he had seen somewhere at some time or other as abosom friend.
"Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!" he observed.
"Good morning," said George.
"Waiting for somebody?""No.""How about it, then? Shall we stagger forth?""Delighted."George found himself speculating upon Reggie. He was unable toplace him. That he was a friend of Maud he knew, and guessed thathe was also a resident of the castle. He would have liked toquestion Reggie, to probe him, to collect from him insideinformation as to the progress of events within the castle walls;but it is a peculiarity of golf, as of love, that it temporarilychanges the natures of its victims; and Reggie, a confirmed babbleroff the links, became while in action a stern, silent, intentperson, his whole being centred on the game. With the exception ofa casual remark of a technical nature when he met George on thevarious tees, and an occasional expletive when things went wrongwith his ball, he eschewed conversation. It was not till the end ofthe round that he became himself again.
"If I'd known you were such hot stuff," he declared generously, asGeorge holed his eighteenth putt from a distance of ten feet, "I'dhave got you to give me a stroke or two.""I was on my game today," said George modestly. "Sometimes I sliceas if I were cutting bread and can't putt to hit a haystack.""Let me know when one of those times comes along, and I'll take youon again. I don't know when I've seen anything fruitier than theway you got out of the bunker at the fifteenth. It reminded me ofa match I saw between--" Reggie became technical. At the end of hisobservations he climbed into the grey car.
"Can I drop you anywhere?""Thanks," said George. "If it's not taking you out your way.""I'm staying at Belpher Castle.""I live quite near there. Perhaps you'd care to come in and have adrink on your way?""A ripe scheme," agreed ReggieTen minutes in the grey car ate up the distance between the linksand George's cottage. Reggie Byng passed these minutes, in theintervals of eluding carts and foiling the apparently suicidalintentions of some stray fowls, in jerky conversation on thesubject of his iron-shots, with which he expressed a deepsatisfaction.
"Topping little place! Absolutely!" was the verdict he pronouncedon the exterior of the cottage as he followed George in. "I'veoften thought it would be a rather sound scheme to settle down inthis sort of shanty and keep chickens and grow a honey colouredbeard, and have soup and jelly brought to you by the vicar's wifeand so forth. Nothing to worry you then. Do you live all alonehere?"George was busy squirting seltzer into his guest's glass.
"Yes. Mrs. Platt comes in and cooks for me. The farmer's wife nextdoor."An exclamation from the other caused him to look up. Reggie Byngwas staring at him, wide-eyed.
"Great Scott! Mrs. Platt! Then you're the Chappie?"George found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure of theconversation.
"The Chappie?""The Chappie there's all the row about. The mater was telling meonly this morning that you lived here.""Is there a row about me?""Is there what!" Reggie's manner became solicitous. "I say, my dearold sportsman, I don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings andwhat not, if you know what I mean, but didn't you know there was acertain amount of angry passion rising and so forth because of you?
At the castle, I mean. I don't want to seem to be discussing yourprivate affairs, and all that sort of thing, but what I mean is...
Well, you don't expect you can come charging in the way you havewithout touching the family on the raw a bit. The daughter of thehouse falls in love with you; the son of the house languishes inchokey because he has a row with you in Piccadilly; and on top ofall that you come here and camp out at the castle gates! Naturallythe family are a bit peeved. Only natural, eh? I mean to say,what?"George listened to this address in bewilderment. Maud in love withhim! It sounded incredible. That he should love her after their onemeeting was a different thing altogether. That was perfectlynatural and in order. But that he should have had the incredibleluck to win her affection. The thing struck ............