She looked at him and hesitated. More than ever he was aware of some subtle change in her. It was as though her mental attitude towards him had adapted itself in some way to this new seriousness of demeanour. It was written in her features—his eyes read it eagerly. A certain aloofness, almost hauteur, about the lines of her mouth, creeping out even in her most careless tones, and plainly manifest in the carriage of her head, was absent. She seemed immeasurably nearer to him. She was softer and more womanly. Even her voice in its new and more delicate notes betrayed the change. Perhaps it was only a mood, yet he would take advantage of it.
“What about your golf?” she said, motioning down into the valley where his antagonist was waiting.
“Oh, I can easily arrange that,” he declared cheerfully. “Fortunately I was playing the professional and he will not mind leaving off.”
He waved to his caddie, and scribbled a few lines on the back of a card.
“Give that to McPherson,” he said. “You can clean my clubs and put them in my locker. I shall not be playing again this morning.”
The boy disappeared down the hill. They stood for a moment side by side.
“I have spoilt your game,” she said. “I am sorry.”
He laughed.
“I think you know,” he said boldly, “that I would rather spend five minutes with you than a day at golf.”