When I was a boy my foolish parents took me on a tour of the continent, for the reason, I presume, that they did not dare leave me at home.  My impression of the colossal splendour beneath the vaulted heights of Saint Peter’s was that a certain smooth space on the tiled floor offered unequalled facilities for playing marbles.  I marvelled that baseball grounds were not laid out in the noble open spaces surrounding the palaces of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna.  The Swiss Alps had a fascination for me by reason of their unsurpassed opportunities for coasting.

It never occurred to me until to-day that nature had any motive in planning Woodvale other than to provide a sporty golf course.  Miss Harding has opened my eyes to the fact that it is one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth.

When I told Carter I was to play with Miss Harding, he looked sort of queer for a moment, and then bet me a box of balls I would not make eighty-five.  This was the only thing he could think to say.  He tried hard to conceal his surprise, but I could see that he was hard hit.

He wins the box of balls, all right.  As a matter of fact we did not finish the round, but I did not tell Carter that.  I simply grinned happily and told him that he had won.

There is no reason why I should attempt to write an account of this game in this diary.  I shall never forget the slightest detail of it as long as I live.

The night is black as a raven’s wing, but I am certain that I can start from the first tee and retrace every step made by Miss Harding over the fourteen holes played, and I will admit that it was far from a straight line.  I will wager that I can place my hand on every place where her club tore up the turf, and can locate the exact spots where she drove out of bounds.

The day was beautiful, the weather perfect.  A few fleecy clouds drifted across a deep sky.  The rich green of the slopes blended into the darker shades of the encompassing forests.  As a rule, the only thing I can recall after a golf game, so far as weather is concerned, is whether it rained or if a high wind were blowing.  It was different to-day.

I noted that the breeze was just strong enough to ruffle the lace at her throat, and that the blue of her gown matched perfectly with cloud, sky, and the dominating tones of the undulating carpet on which she tread.

I might play with Marshall or Chilvers a thousand times and not know or care if the links were garbed in green or yellow, or if the clouds were pink or Van Dyke brown, but as I said before, the only sentiment aroused by association with these vindictive golf fiends is a wild and unreasoning desire to beat the life out of them at their own game.  I dislike to say it, but they have never inspired in me one sentiment of which I am proud.

At my suggestion we decided to start at the third tee.  The first one requires a long drive to carry the lane, and on the second it is necessary to negotiate the old graveyard, and I disliked to put Miss Harding to so severe a test on the start.