Bobby was on his feet, staring helplessly round.
"In your work bag?" asked Madge.
Greta nodded, and the two raced each other upstairs. Miss Greta lifted her candid eyes. "Does it require a great deal of practice, Mr. Napier, to play golf passably?" She blushed slightly as she went on: "I suppose I've hoped that if I watched you, I'd stand a better chance of playing a fair game myself some day. Fair, that is," she added, with her meek droop of the braid-crowned head, "fair for a woman."
"I'm sure you know," Napier returned a little impatiently, "that plenty of women play very well."
"Do you mean," she inquired with her soft persistence, "you'd ever be so kind as to give me a tip or two?"
He didn't answer at once, and she turned in her chair to look at him. Out from her disarranged cushion rolled a large ball of field gray. It bumped against Napier's ankle and rebounded to the wall.
"Isn't this the wool you were looking for?" He took it up by the loose end, and rapidly unrolled several yards of it.
"Thank you so much! I can't think how it got down here." She took the ball from him, and remained standing while she rewound. "After all, I sha'n't much more than have time to get on my things." She glanced at the clock.
"Where are you going?" Lady McIntyre asked the question from habit. Seldom was Greta allowed to leave the room without that question.
"You were so kind as to say I might have the cart."