“Don’t say, ‘lovers’!” implored Clarice. “From beginning to end, Bettine, it was nothing but a flirtation. I will own that I was—attracted, almost fascinated. I had never met a human being whose nature was of so many colors ... whose soul....” She broke off.
“I have been informed on good authority,” observed Lady Millebrook, “that whenever Pontoise meant mischief he invariably talked about his soul. But do go on!
“Of course, you played golf also; and as one of the great advantages connected with the game is that you can choose your own partner, I may presume that Pontoise made acquaintance with it under your auspices, and that when he landed himself in the jaws of some terrific sand-bunker, you were at hand to help him out.”
“As his hostess, it was rather incumbent upon me,” explained Mrs. Tollebranch, “to make myself of use. Willibrand and Sir Roger Balcombe termed him a duffer; Major Wharfling is nothing but a professional, Cadminster and the Guardsmen were hard drivers all. And as Bluefern had made me a golfing costume which was a perfect dream——”
“You completed the conquest of Pontoise. I quite understand!” said Bettine. “In that frock, armed with a long spoon. I quite grasp it.”
“The golf course is very open at Tobermuirie,” went on Clarice, playing with the feather fan.
“But there are hillocks, and bumps and boulders, and things behind which Pontoise managed to get in a good many references to his soul. I grasp that also,” observed Lady Millebrook.
“He did mention his soul,” admitted Mrs. Tollebranch. “He said that it had always been lonely, thirsting for the sympathy of a sister-spirit until——”
“Until he met you!”
“He did say as much. And he explained how, in sheer desperation of ever meeting the affinity, the flame for whom the spark of his being had been originally kindled, a man may drift into all kinds of follies, even gain the name of a libertine and a roué.”