Armitage dropped the reins upon the neck of his panting horse.
“It is a fine valley—yes?” asked Oscar.
“It is a possession worthy of the noblest gods!” replied Armitage. “There is a white building with colonnades away over there—is it the house of the reigning deity?”
“It is not, sir,” answered Oscar, who spoke English with a kind of dogged precision, giving equal value to all words. “It is a vast hotel where the rich spend much money. That place at the foot of the hills—do you see?—it is there they play a foolish game with sticks and little balls—”
“Golf? Is it possible!”
“There is no doubt of it, sir. I have seen the fools myself—men and women. The place is called Storm Valley.”
Armitage slapped his thigh sharply, so that his horse started.
“Yes; you are probably right, Oscar, I have heard of the place. And those houses that lie beyond there in the valley belong to gentlemen of taste and leisure who drink the waters and ride horses and play the foolish game you describe with little white balls.”
“I could not tell it better,” responded Oscar, who had dismounted, like a good trooper, to rest his horse.
“And our place—is it below there?” demanded Armitage.