"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you seem vastly surprised."
"I was—I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.
"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you were!"
"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now you confess why you did it."
"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it been decreed that a lady must confess to her chauffeur? Do not forget your place, Jacques Henri. Let's start for the club house; I see papa and others on the lawn."
I have a theory of the truth, but it is too foolish to put in writing.
We made a speedy run to Woodvale after a most delightful afternoon.
ENTRY NO. XVII
THE PASSING OF PERCY
During the forenoon of the day following our visit to Oak Cliff Mr. Harding, Carter and I were sitting under the big elm tree near the first tee. We had our clubs with us, but the railroad magnate wished to finish his cigar before starting to play.
A farm wagon drove up the circular roadway which surrounds the club house, and the owner after glancing doubtfully about approached us. He was tall, angular, and whiskered.