The next afternoon they played golf. It was at the fifth tee that they abandoned the last pretense of formality. She topped her drive wretchedly; the ball rolled a scant ten feet.
"Oh, David!" she cried. "Did you ever see anything so awful?"
"Many times," answered David, who was looking at her, not at the ball. "I've often wondered," he mused raptly, "how 'David' would sound, set to music."
He was rewarded by her rippling, musical laugh. "You say the absurdest things—and the nicest."
They pursued her recalcitrant ball until it led them, by many zigzags, to an old elm that had upset more than one good game. But they did not swear at it. They sat down under its generous shade, David lighted a cigarette and they gave themselves to a more agreeable exercise. They pretended to define it.
"I suppose," Shirley broke a brief intimate silence, "people think we're having a violent flirtation. But we're not, are we?"
"Certainly not," said David with emphasis.
"They couldn't understand. We're just naturally meant to be good friends and it didn't take us an age to find that out."
"Yes," said David slowly.
"Tell me about yourself."