"I say, Purvis, what do you think of him?"
"Of whom?"
"You know. Don't you think he was laughing at us during the early part of the game?"
"Why?"
"Why, just think. For the first few holes he played like a twenty-seven handicap man, or even worse than that. Then suddenly—why, you saw for yourself. I played a good game, and so did you; but where were we? He might have been a first-class professional. What do you think he meant by it?"
"Probably nothing. I should say he is one of those remarkable fellows about whom one hears sometimes, but seldom sees, who can do almost anything. Somehow, I don't know why, but I felt the moment I spoke to him that he was a man with tremendous reserve power."
"Do you know who he reminds me of?"
"Yes."
"Yes, that's it. Of course he's utterly unlike what Leicester was, and yet he makes one think of him. You remember what a fine golfer he was and how deadly he was on the greens. If Leicester had lived, and had come here, they would have found a lot in common with each other."
"If Leicester had lived, my dear fellow, I don't suppose we should ever have come here."