The player was Bill. There was no escaping him. Early and late he seemed to be always in the centre of the picture. But why should one wish to escape him? Who could be fairer to look upon? A sight for sair eyne, as these quaint Scots said, this tall, brown, upstanding young fellow.
By the time Mame was through the business of dressing, she had made up her mind to repair one more gap in her education. She must learn to play golf. And Bill it should be to give her a first lesson. A believer in the definite object, and a mark to aim at in the life of each day, she was as confirmed a go-getter in the Scotch highlands as on Broadway or in the Strand.
Quickly she swallowed her porridge and bacon and sought the diligent Bill. He was still putting. In his way he also was a go-getter. For the time being, at any rate, he was the slave of ambition. Twelve was his present handicap, yet he saw no reason why concentration on the short game should not soon reduce it to a more seemly nine.
With the genial forthcomingness that Mame considered to be not the least of Bill’s merits, he made his ambition known to her as soon as she came upon the scene. And she, with the engaging frankness which in his eyes was so attractive, promptly confided her own resolve. No hour like the present, declared Bill. The stalkers would not seek the hills before noon. Plenty of time for a lesson.
“I’ll borrow a club off Gwendolen Childwick. Mine are a bit heavy for you. Then I’ll show you the swing. In this game the swing is everything; and it’s jolly difficult.”
Mame was sure that it was. With a merry eye she watched Simplicitas stroll away in quest of Gwendolen Childwick’s bag. Gwendolen was a “scratch” player. Her bag was simply bulging with drivers and brassies, not to mention irons and spoons.
If Bill was not, broadly speaking, one of nature’s most solid chunks of wisdom, that is to say he was a most deliciously tactless young man, he was yet brimming over with other qualities. And these greatly commended themselves to Mame. She broke into a low carol of pure joy when the sweet boob returned in about five minutes with Miss Childwick’s second-best driver.
“Didn’t seem very keen on lending it, for some reason.” He proceeded to lock Mame’s fingers round the leather in the Vardon grip. “Worst of these classic gowfers is they are so fearfully particular about their clubs. But we can’t possibly do this one any harm, can we?”
Mame was sure they could not.
They spent a profitable hour. This pretty and clever Miss Du Rance was a very apt pupil. Bill was convinced the root of the matter was in her. These Americans had a wonderful faculty for picking up games. And their minds were so fresh and so cute. Most amusing che-ild he had met in a month of Sundays. The things she said and the way she said them! Yet learning, mark you, to swing that bally old club better and better all the time.