A yacht is always so sentient a thing, and seems so full of conscious life.
Quarles appeared to understand my momentary preoccupation.
"Don't take any notice of her," he said. "We're out for golf. I always manage a good drive from this tee."
This time was an exception, at any rate, and, in fact, for the remainder of the round he played worse than before, if that were possible. But he was perfectly satisfied with himself, and talked nothing but golf as we walked back, until we were close to the hotel, when he stopped suddenly.
"Queer chap, that, on the green."
"Very."
"Do you think he came from the yacht?"
"I was wondering whether he hadn't escaped from an asylum," I answered.
"I wonder what he was doing on the green," Quarles went on. "I saw no one else playing this afternoon, so he had the green to himself, except for the little time we disturbed him. When I first saw him it didn't seem to me that he was practicing putting, and I thought he watched us rather curiously."
"A theory, professor?" I asked with a smile.