"Then you had no business to try to murder me. It wasn't at all funny."
The ball lipped the hole, and Ralton looked at her accusingly.
"That was you," he remarked. "You've got no business to talk to the man at the putter."
"It was nothing of the sort," jeered the girl. "Merely a rotten bad putt." She kicked his ball towards him, and replaced the pin in the hole. "What are you supposed to be doing," she said, suddenly, "playing about here by yourself?"
"Trying to loosen some very stiff muscles for the Active Service Championship," he answered. "Which accounts for me, my lady. Have you got as satisfactory an explanation for yourself?"
She frowned slightly, but Ralton was apparently engrossed in making his tee. She waited until he had driven, and the frown disappeared.
"What a beauty!" she cried, enthusiastically. Then she recollected his remark, and frowned again. "But the fact that you happen to be able to play golf is no excuse for your being rude."
He turned and faced her with a whimsical smile on his lips. "Was I rude?" he said. "Ah! no—I think not. Because somehow I've got an idea that you haven't at all a satisfactory explanation to give of yourself. I think—I may be wrong—but, I think, you're posing."
"Posing! What do you mean?" The girl's voice was indignant.
"Not intentionally," he went on calmly, "but unconsciously. Only you're posing just the same." He picked up his clubs and stood for a while looking at her thoughtfully. "I am going to play this hole," he announced at length, "and then I am going to tell you a story.... We'll go and sit on top of that sand dune by the next green, and look out to sea, and listen to the oyster-catchers.... Poor little devils—those oyster-catchers! Have you ever noticed how they do all the work, and the gulls get all the oysters?" He came to his ball, and once again appealed to her for advice.