Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net. Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian woman jealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more than half suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumped into the cross bunker.
"Oh, partner!" she squealed. "Can you ever forgive me?"
"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself. Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker."
"It's perfectly dear of you to say so!"
"Fore!" said Mary, who was on the tee, and the conversation ceased.
"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end of the bunker."
Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything in which the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is the length of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men and smack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade a two-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be a wonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that. It is the long tee shot that takes her eye—the drive that skims the bunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sex equality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is just ordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, man fashion.
Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the left would have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell——
"But I think I can carry it," said Mary with a tiny pout.
"Change your stance and drive to the left." The suggestion had become a command.