CHAPTER XX
Even Mortimer Crabb was excluded from that charming luncheon of four. It was very informal and great was the merriment at Patricia’s expense, but through it all she smiled calmly at their scepticism—as Columbus at Salamanca must have smiled, if he ever did, or Newton or Edison, or any others of the world’s great innovators.
“Cross-country golf,” she continued proudly to assert, “is the golf of the New Era.”
“Do you really mean it, Patty?” asked Aurora seriously, when the men had gone upstairs to change.
“Of course I do, Aurora. The Ancient and Honorable Game has its limitations. Cross-country golf has none. You’ll see, my dear, in ten years, they’ll be playing distance matches between New York and Philadelphia—the fewest strokes in the shortest time—that will be a game.”
“And who’ll pay for the lost balls?” asked Aurora, laughing.
“That, Aurora,” replied Patricia with a touch of dignity, “is something with which I am remotely concerned.”
The men came down stairs dressed for the fray, grinning broadly, and Patricia, after a glance at McLemore’s red vest, took up his golf bag with a business-like air and led the way to the terrace. The Sphynx blinked through his tauric glasses at her unresponsive back silhouetted in the doorway, but as Aurora had taken Steve’s bag, he followed meekly, submitting to the inevitable. Outside, Patricia was indicating a rift in the row of maples which bordered her vegetable garden, through which was to be seen the brown sweep of the meadow beyond.