"Golf," said Grace Forrester, "seems to make men very rude. Mr. Willard
left me without a word in the middle of our conversation."

James was astonished.

"Were you talking to Peter?"

"Yes. Just now. I can't understand what was the matter with him. He
just turned on his heel and swung off."

"You oughtn't to turn on your heel when you swing," said James; "only
on the ball of the foot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing. I wasn't thinking. The fact is, I've something on my
mind. So has Peter. You mustn't think too hardly of him. We have been
playing an important match, and it must have got on his nerves. You
didn't happen by any chance to be watching us?"

"No."

"Ah! I wish you had seen me at the lake-hole. I did it one under par."

"Was your father playing?"

"You don't understand. I mean I did it in one better than even the
finest player is supposed to do it. It's a mashie-shot, you know. You
mustn't play too light, or you fall in the lake; and you mustn't play
it too hard, or you go past the hole into the woods. It requires the