At this crisis, Margot failed lamentably. She ought, of course, to have laid her ball within a foot of the hole. Joyce, with the same shot, bearing in mind the score, would have played for safety. Instead, Margot putted boldly for the hole and overran it six feet. The Squire made light of this misdemeanor, for it was quite obvious that the little lady had lost her temper.
“I shall down it,” he assured her. But his ball lipped the hole and ran round it. Lionel holed out in three.
“All square,” said the Squire. “Now, Margot, we’ll give ’em a taste of our real quality.”
She smiled faintly, irritated with herself, irritated with Lionel, who was much too cock-a-whoop. In silence she followed her partner to the eighteenth tee. Joyce drove off as steadily as ever, no pressing, a nice full swing. Margot followed with a fair shot, but many yards short of Joyce’s ball. This left the Squire a very dangerous stroke. If he played for the “pin,” he might land in a ditch. If he “skrimshanked,” Margot would have to play a difficult approach on to the most tricky green on the course.
“What shall I do?” he asked.
“Go for it,” replied Margot, curtly.
Sir Geoffrey took out his brassey, shaking his head, as he noted a “cuppy” lie. But he knew himself to be a good and steady player, and this was “a corking good match.”
To his immense satisfaction he played the shot of the day, carrying the ditch and running on to the green. Lionel congratulated him heartily:
“You’re a marvel, father. That shot has cost me seven and sixpence.”
“Not yet,” said Joyce. “Play well to the left.”