“I am scratch at three clubs,” Mr. Sabin answered quietly, “and plus four at one.”
A gleam of delight mingled with respect at his opponent, shone in the Scotchman’s face.
“Aye, but we will be having a fine game,” he exclaimed. “Though I’m thinking you will down me. But it is grand good playing with a mon again.”
The match was now at the fifteenth hole. Mr. Sabin, with a long and deadly putt—became four up and three to play. As the ball trickled into the hole the Scotchman drew a long breath.
“It’s a fine match,” he said, “and I’m properly downed. What’s more, you’re holding the record of the links up to this present. Fifteen holes for sixty-four is verra good—verra good indeed. There’s no man in America to-day to beat it.”
And then Mr. Sabin, who was on the point of making a genial reply, felt a sudden and very rare emotion stir his heart and blood, for almost in his ears there had sounded a very sweet and familiar voice, perhaps the voice above all others which he had least expected to hear again in this world.
“You have not then forgotten your golf, Mr. Sabin? What do you think of my little course?”
He turned slowly round and faced her. She was standing on the rising ground just above the putting-green, the skirt of her riding habit gathered up in her hand, her lithe, supple figure unchanged by time, the old bewitching smile still playing about her lips. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Mr. Sabin, with his cap in his hand, moved slowly to her side, and bowed low over the hand which she extended to him.