Mannering was pretty, and no doubt foolish. She lived alone with her
uncle, and possibly had some influence over him. It was certainly worth
while.

"I do not know you nearly well enough, Miss Mannering," he said, smiling,
"to tell you what I really think. But I can assure you that you don't
seem a barbarian to me at all."

She was suddenly grave. It was her turn to play a stroke. She examined
the ball, carefully selected a club from her bag, and with a long, easy
swing sent it flying towards the hole.

"Wonderful!" he murmured.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Tell me what you are thinking," she insisted.

"That if I played golf," he answered, "I should like to be able to play
like that."

"But you must have played games sometimes," she insisted.

"When I was at Eton--" he murmured.

Mannering looked back, smiling.

"He was in the Eton Eleven, Clara, and stroked his boat at college. Don't
you believe all he tells you."