Jane gave him some cake. Having ruined his life, it was, she felt, the least she could do. In a spasm of belated maternal love she also slipped him a jam-sandwich. But how trivial and useless these things seemed now.
“Braid!” she cried, suddenly.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
“Let mother show you how to hold that mashie.”
“What’s a mashie?”
A new gash opened in Jane’s heart. Four years old, and he didn’t know what a mashie was. And at only a slightly advanced age Bobby Jones had been playing in the American Open Championship.
“This is a mashie,” she said, controlling her voice with difficulty.
“Why?”