"What's your handicap?" asked the Colonel, an enthusiastic though
inglorious practitioner of the game.

"One," said Paul.

"The deuce it is!" cried the Colonel. "Mine is fifteen. You must
give me a lesson or two when you pull round. We've a capital course
here."

"That's very kind of you," said Paul, "but I'm afraid I shall be
well enough for ordinary purposes long before I'm able to handle a
golf club."

"What do you mean?"

"This silly pleurisy. It will hang about for ages!"

"Well?"

"I'll have to go my ways from here long before I can play."

"Any great hurry?"

"I can't go on accepting your wonderful hospitality indefinitely,"
said Paul.

"That's nonsense. Stay as long as ever you like."

"If I did that," said Paul, "I would stay on forever."