“I’ve no patience with Aurora North,” said Patty, “she’s absolutely lacking in a sense of proportion. Imagine letting one’s life happiness hang on the fate of a single putt.”
“And Steve is such a dear.”
“He is, that’s the worst of it—and they’re eminently fitted for each other in every way—by birth, breeding, and circumstances. As a sportsman Jimmy may be a success, but as a gentleman—as a lover—as a husband——”
Patricia’s two brown hands were raised in protest toward Olympus. “It’s odious, Pen, a case for a grand jury—or a coroner!”
“Aurora is too nice a girl,” sighed Penelope.
“Nice! In everything but discrimination. That’s the peril of being an ‘out-of-door girl.’ The more muscle, the less gray matter. That kind of thing disturbs the balance of power.” Patricia sighed—“Oh, I tried it and I know. A woman with too much muscle is like an over-rigged yawl—all right in light airs, but dangerous in a blow. What’s the use? Our greatest strength after all, is weakness.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t convince Aurora of that—nor Steve.”
“I don’t know,” said Patricia, slowly, “but I’d like to try.”
Further talk was interrupted by the arrival of the crowd from the fair-green, thirsty and controversial. Steve Ventnor, like the good loser that he was, had been the first to shake McLemore by the hand in congratulation, and if he was heavy of heart, his smiling face gave no sign of it. For the present, at least, he had abandoned the field to his conqueror who brought up the rear of the “gallery” with Aurora, accepting handshakes right and left with the changeless dignity which had gained him his sobriquet of “Sphynx.” At the veranda steps Mortimer Crabb took him in tow and brought him to the table where Penelope and Patricia were mournfully absorbing lemonade.