Before he had time to turn the matter over in his mind, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a fresh figure.
“How's the strain, squire?” he greeted the newcomer; and, as Wendover came up to the group, he introduced him to his two companions.
“I hope you enjoyed your round,” said Wendover, turning to Stanley Fleetwood. “Did he manage to work off any of his special expertise on you this morning?”
“He beat me, if that's what you mean.”
“H'm! He beats me usually,” Wendover confessed. “I don't mind being beaten by play; but I hate to be beaten by the rules.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Wendover? You seem to have a grievance,” Cressida asked, seeing a twinkle in Wendover's eye.
“The fact is,” Wendover explained, “yesterday my ball rolled up against a large worm on the green and stopped there. I'm of a humane disposition, so I bent down to remove the worm, rather than putt across its helpless body. He objected, if you please, on the ground that one may not remove anything growing. I don't know whether it was growing or not—it looked to me remarkably well grown for a worm, and had probably passed the growing age. But, when I urged that, he simply floored me by quoting a recent decision of the Royal and Ancient on the point.”
“If you play a game, you must play that game and not one you invent on the spur of the moment, squire,” Sir Clinton warned him, with no sign of sympathy in his tone. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”
“Hark to the chief constable!” Wendover complained. “Of course, his mind dotes on the legal aspect of things, and he's used to keeping all sorts of rules and regulations in his head. His knowledge of the laws of golf is worth a couple of strokes on his handicap on any average round.”
Cressida glanced at Sir Clinton.