She said it was; so I continued:
The Dryad, with her sleeves rolled up above her pretty elbows, was preparing to assault a golf ball; Jones regarded the proceedings with that inscrutable expression which, no doubt, is bestowed upon certain creatures as a weapon for self-protection.
"Don't talk to me while I'm driving," said the Dryad.
"No," said Jones.
"Don't even say 'no'!" insisted the Dryad.
A sharp thwack shattered the silence; the golf ball sailed away toward the fifth green, landing in a gully. "Oh, bother!" exclaimed the Dryad, petulantly, as the small black caddie pattered forward, irons rattling in his quiver. "Now, Mr. Jones, it is up to you"—doubtless a classically mythological form of admonition common to Dryads but now obsolete.
The Dryad, receiving no reply, looked around and beheld Jones, net poised, advancing on tiptoe across the green.
"What is it—a snake?" inquired the Dryad in an unsteady voice.
"It is The White Devil!" whispered Jones.