“It is called a mashie.”
“What is?”
“This club.”
“Why?”
The conversation was becoming too metaphysical for Jane. She took the club from him and closed her hands over it.
“Now, look, dear,” she said, tenderly. “Watch how mother does it. She puts the fingers—”
A voice spoke, a voice that had been absent all too long from Jane’s life.
“You’ll pardon me, old girl, but you’ve got the right hand much too far over. You’ll hook for a certainty.”
In the doorway, large and dripping, stood William. Jane stared at him dumbly.
“William!” she gasped at length.