“Well, you see, it’s rather too far for a cleek, and too short for a driver. Sometimes I try it with a brassey, but on the whole I think the cleek is best. If you over-drive you get into awful trouble, as you will see.” So the course was gone over and explained, and Tom’s eye was quick to see the possibilities, and note the dangers, nor did she hesitate sometimes to differ from Harold’s tactics.
“Well,” said he, in conclusion, “what do you think of ’em? Rather sporting, aren’t they?”
“Humph—yes!” said Tom. “That fifth hole is a little tricky, but I think they ought to be done in—er—What’s your record?”
“M–well, it varies—of course. I’m no pro., but I can get round in forty, with luck.”
“Forty! Humph!” Tom wheeled round on her heel, and gazed from right to left with calculating eyes. Her lips moved noiselessly, then she nodded her head, and cried confidently:
“I’ll take you! I’ll play you to-morrow for the better man!”
“Done!” agreed Harold at once, but he straightened his shoulders as he spoke with a gesture which meant that he had no intention, if he knew it, of being beaten by a school-girl, and his sister looked forward to the contest with very mingled feelings. If Tom lost, it would be a distinct blow; yet if Tom won, how Harold would dislike her! How hopeless it would be to look for any friendship between them after that! She was glad that the game would have to be deferred for a day at least, for an evening spent in Tom’s company must surely instal her in public favour. When, however, she went to her friend’s room to convey her downstairs to dinner, Rhoda’s confidence was shaken, and she nearly exclaimed aloud in dismay at the apparition which she beheld.
Tom in full evening dress was a vision which had been denied to Hurst Manor, but on the present occasion she had evidently determined to pay every honour to her hosts, and bony arms and neck emerged festively from a shot-silk gown, which Rhoda felt convinced must have been a possession of the long-deceased mother.
“What do you think of that?” Tom cried proudly, rustling round to confront the new-comer, arms akimbo, and eyes twinkling with complacency. “There’s a natty get-up! Quite a fashion plate, ain’t I? The very latest from Par-ee. You didn’t expect to see anything like that, did you?”
“I didn’t!” cried Rhoda, truthfully enough; but Tom suspected no satire in her words, and taking up the hand-glass, began twisting and turning before the mirror so as to get a view of her hair, which was no longer plaited into a pigtail, but screwed into a knot the size of a walnut, planted accurately in the middle of her head.