“Oh!” she cried. “Do you suppose I could do it again?”
“Any number of times, if you’ll keep your eye on the star.”
“But one could not carry about a box of stars in a match, could one?”
“One could. But it won’t be necessary. Two weeks’ practice at that will get you clean out of the Little Eyolf habit.”
“Will it, indeed? But why do you look so intently at the spot?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy hastily. “It was your boot—I mean, I was thinking what that queer old codger Eli Wade said when I went after your boots.”
“And was that golf?” inquired Miss Ames with a demure and candid air. “No? Then, if you do not mind, we will postpone it, shall we not?”
“Stung!” confessed Jeremy. “We shall.”
The bestarred second round cut no less than five strokes from the score of the gratified pupil and her even more highly pleased instructor. This in spite of the fact that she had once lifted her head and perpetrated a lamen table foozle, whereupon Jeremy gravely pasted one of the stars on the toe of her left boot: “To keep you reminded,” he explained.
“But,” he added, “you’ve got to clip at least three more strokes off to be safe. That’ll take you all your time.”