Our first game was so romantic.  It was as if the kindly skies had raised a dome over earth’s most favoured spot and reserved it for our use.  It was different to-day.

I presume it is necessary that beautiful maidens shall have fathers.  I raise no doubt that Mr. Harding is a wonderful financier and railroad genius, and it is likely he is entitled to a vacation and to that relaxation which comes from taking exercise, but this does not justify him in—­well, in “butting in” on our game.  I don’t use slang as a rule, but no other term so accurately describes the conduct of that gentleman this afternoon.

As for Carter—­I have no words to express what I think of Carter.

If I had a daughter nineteen years old it would occur to me that she might prefer to play golf with a young gentleman somewhere near her own age rather than with me, especially if that young gentleman were a good golfer, and possessed of wealth, prospects, and honourable ambitions.  But Mr. Harding treats her as if she were a school miss in short dresses.  He persists in calling her “Kid,” and only rarely does he address her by the beautiful name of Grace.

When Miss Harding started from the club house her father was on the lawn not many yards away engaged in the interesting but expensive experiment of trying to drive balls across the lake.  He was buying new balls by the box—­they cost $5.50 a box—­with the joyous abandon of a pampered boy purchasing fire-crackers on the Fourth of July.

All he asks of a ball is “one crack at it,” and the caddies were reaping a harvest.  He had not made one decent drive, and was surprised and angry.

As luck would have it he turned and saw us as we were starting for the first tee.  He had laid aside that flaming red-and-green coat, and was in his shirt sleeves.  His face was crimson from exertion, and his hair wet with perspiration.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“We’re going to play a round,” I answered, with a sinking heart.

“Good; I’ll go with you,” he returned.  “Chuck the rest of those balls into that sack,” he said to one of his caddies, “and follow me.”

What could I do but say we would be delighted to have him join us?  We were waiting for him, when who should come from the club house but Carter.

“Hello there, Carter!” shouted Harding.  “Come on and play with us!  This is my first real game, and we’ll make it a foursome, or whatever you call it.  What d’ye say?”

“That’s fine!” declared Carter.

I happen to know that he had already made up a game with Marshall, Boyd, and Chilvers, but he did not hesitate to abandon them for his long-coveted chance to play with Miss Harding.

“We’ll have a great game,” asserted Mr. Harding mopping his brow.  “How shall we divide up?  I suppose you’re the best player, Carter, and Smith comes next, but I can beat the Kid, here,” patting Miss Harding on the shoulder.