“I’ll be on the dot,” he answered.  “Here, boy,” beckoning a caddy, “take Miss Flint’s sticks.  And have mine carried to the green.  Look sharp, now!”

Then, with a nod at the girl, he ran up the steps and vanished in the club-house, bound for the locker-room.

Fifteen minutes the girl waited on the green, watching others drive off from the little tees and inwardly chafing to be in action.  Fifteen, and then twenty, before Waldron finally appeared, immaculate in white, bare-armed and with a loose, checked cap shading his close-set eyes.  The fact was, in addition to having changed his clothes, he had felt obliged to linger in the bar for a little Scotch; and one drink had meant another; and thus precious moments had sped.

But his smile was confident as he approached the green.  Women, after all, he reflected, were meant to be kept waiting.  They never appreciated a man who kept appointments exactly.  Not less fatuous at heart, in truth, was he, than the unfortunate Van Slyke.  But his manner was perfection as he saluted her and bade the caddy build their tees.

The girl, however, was now plainly vexed.  Her mouth had drawn a trifle tight and the tilt of her chin was determined.  Her eyes were far from soft, as she surveyed this delinquent fiance.

“I don’t like you a bit, today, Wally,” said she, as he deliberated over the club-bag, choosing a driver.  “This makes twice you’ve kept me waiting.  I warn you don’t let it happen again!”

Under the seeming banter of her tone lurked real resentment.  But he, with a smile—­partly due to a finger too much Scotch—­only answered, in a low tone: 

“You’re adorable, today, Kate!  The combination of fresh air and annoyance has painted the most wonderful roses on your cheeks!”

She shrugged her shoulders with a little motion she had inherited from French ancestry, stooped, set her golf ball on the little mound of sand, exactly to suit her, and raised her driver on high.

“Nine holes,” said she, “and I’m going to beat you, today!”

He frowned a little at the spirit of the threat, for any self-assertion in a woman crossed his grain; but soon forgot his pique in admiration of the drive.

Swishing, her club flashed down in a quick circle. Crack!  It struck the gutta-percha squarely.  The little white sphere zipped away like a rocket, rose in a far trajectory, up, up, toward the water-hazard at the foot of the grassy slope, then down in a long curve.

Even while the girl’s cry of “Fore!” was echoing across the green, the ball struck earth, ricochetted and sped on, away, across the turf, till it came to rest not twenty yards from the putting green of the first hole.

“Wheeoo!” whistled Waldron.  “Some drive.  I guess you’re going to make good your threat, today, Kate of my heart!”

The smile she flashed at him showed that her resentment had, for the moment, been forgotten.