“Yes,” said I. “I did ask about it. It seems that the golf course is a private one, on the big estate we passed on the way from the station. Permission is always given the rectory tenants.”
“Oh! my gracious, isn't that grand! That estate isn't in Mayberry. The Mayberry bounds—that's what Mrs. Cole called them—and just this side. The estate is in the village of—of Burgleston Bogs. Burgleston Bogs—it's a funny name. Seem's if I'd heard it before.”
“You have,” said I, in surprise. “Burgleston Bogs is where that Heathcroft chap whom we met on the steamer visits occasionally. His aunt has a big place there. By George! you don't suppose that estate belongs to his aunt, do you?”
Hephzy gasped. “I wouldn't wonder,” she cried. “I wouldn't wonder if it did. And his aunt was Lady Somebody, wasn't she. Maybe you'll meet him there. Goodness sakes! just think of your playin' golf with a Lady's nephew.”
“I doubt if we need to think of it,” I observed. “Mr. Carleton Heathcroft on board ship may be friendly with American plebeians, but on shore, and when visiting his aunt, he may be quite different. I fancy he and I will not play many holes together.”
Hephzy laughed. “You 'fancy,'” she repeated. “You'll be sayin' 'My word' next. My! Hosy, you ARE gettin' English.”
“Indeed I'm not!” I declared, with emphasis. “My experience with an English relative is sufficient of itself to prevent that. Miss Frances Morley and I are compatriots for the summer only.”