“Too bad, Steve,” said Patricia with a brightness that failed to deceive. “Nobody with mere blood in his veins can expect to compete with a hydraulic ram. He’s a wonderful piece of mechanism—Jimmy is—but I’m always tortured with the fear that he may forget to wind himself up some morning. Mort, couldn’t you have dropped a little sand in his bearings?”
“Oh, he’s got plenty of sand,” said Crabb generously.
“He’s a cracking good golfer,” said Steve, looking reprovingly at Patricia. “He’s the better man, that’s all.”
He sank beside Patricia while Crabb had a steward take the orders.
“No,” muttered Patricia. “Not that, not the better man, only the better golfer, Steve.” And then with a sudden and mystifying change of manner, “Do you know why he always wears a crimson vest?”
“No—I’ve never thought,” replied Steve.
“It’s very—un—er—unprofessional—isn’t it?”
“It isn’t what a man wears that wins holes, you know, Patty.”
“Oh, no,” she said, carelessly, “I was just wondering——”
Mortimer Crabb, unofficial host of the occasion, had beckoned to Aurora and McLemore, who now joined the party. Steve Ventnor rose as the girl approached and their eyes met. Aurora’s eyes were the color of lapis-lazuli, but the deep tan of her skin made them seem several shades lighter. They were handsome eyes, very clear and expressive, and at important moments like the present ones her long lashes effectually screened what might have been read in their depths.