Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably.

"Golf," she said, "bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game
ever invented!"

The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a means
of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has
the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show James
at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes
shut, with a semi-circular dotted line marking the progress of his
flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There
are no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror that
froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears.

He had never inquired into Miss Forrester's religious views before, but
he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was
polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It
would be incorrect to say that James's love was turned to hate. He did
not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What
he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend
of the two.

There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then,
without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away.

* * * * *

Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friend
arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was
alone, he came forward hesitatingly.