"Feeling better, aren't you?"
"I feel so well," she returned, "that if this doctor of mine weren't such a Simon Legree, I could play you eighteen holes of golf for a box of gloves against a box of cigars."
"Gambler!" he scoffed. "And if I should win, I suppose I'd have to smoke the cigars."
"Certainly," she countered, easily, "if I should have to wear the gloves."
He sank back in the big chair.
"Well," he asserted, "it were useless to speculate on that which may never be. I am at present in that interesting state of a man's career where golf doesn't belong. A man who is beyond the first flush of adolescence and not yet in the last pallor of senility, has no business dallying with golf. He's liable to get sunstruck."
Muriel, who had been listening with round, wondering eyes, ran to her mother.
"What does he mean, mother dear?" she asked.
Elinor replied instead, laughing.
"Nobody knows, Muriel. Not even he."