“Chuck the game?” repeated Joyce. “Never!”
Lionel pulled himself together. All trace of irritation vanished. He laughed, squaring his shoulders, sticking out his chin.
“Joyce is a stayer and so am I. Father, I’ll take four to one in half-crowns?”
“Done!” said the Squire.
“I’ll give the same odds,” remarked Margot.
“Right,” replied Lionel. “Go it, Joyce! Smite and spare not! Get on to the fairway, if you can.”
“Get on to the green,” exclaimed the Squire derisively.
Margot frowned. An absurd thought harassed her, clawing savagely at something she despised, a rigorously suppressed sense of the superstitious. Had a mocking speech been taken seriously? Was this game, so much in her favour already, to be regarded as an epitome of the greater game to be played to a finish between herself and Joyce? By something of a coincidence, the Squire, who shared her desires, was her partner——!
Joyce planted her feet firmly in the heather—and smote.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Lionel. “The luck has turned. This puts ginger into me.”