“Isn’t Mr. Smith the incorrigible woman-hater?” exclaimed Mrs. Chilvers.  “You did not talk that way before you became so infatuated with golf, Mr. Smith.”

“I am not a woman-hater,” I protested, “but I—­I don’t like to——­”

“Some day Smith will meet a fair creature on the golf links and lose his drive and his heart at the same time,” declared Chilvers.  “That was the way I was tripped up and carried into bondage,” he added, his hand wandering to his wife’s waist.

“With the exception of Mrs. Chilvers,” I said, and I came very near making no exceptions, Miss Ross and Miss Dangerfield having left us—­“with the exception of Mrs. Chilvers, I have yet to see the woman who shows to advantage with a golf regalia.  If Miss Harding is beautiful enough to overcome the handicap which always attaches to the female golf duffer, she can give Venus odds and beat her handily.”

“You will meet a golfing Venus some day,” smiled Mrs. Chilvers, willing that her sex should be attacked so long as she was exempt.

“That’s what he will,” added Chilvers; “I’m agile, but I slipped.”

“The artists who depict the woman golfer as graceful and attractive,” I continued, “must draw from imagination rather than from models.  In my humble opinion a woman shows to better advantage climbing a steep flight of stairs than in any possible posture in striking a golf ball.”

“The ladies—­God bless ’em—­and keep them off the links!” muttered Marshall.

“Why, Charlie Marshall!” exclaimed Mrs. Quivers.  “I shall see that your wife hears that!”

“Don’t tell her; she’ll beat him terribly,” warned Chilvers.  “Did you ever hear, Boyd, why our friend Smith is so sour when he sees a lady on these links?”

Chilvers has told that story on me many times, but Boyd declared he had not heard it.

“As you know,” began Chilvers, “Smith was born on this farm.  It’s the ancestral Smith homestead, and Smith’s relatives were very indignant when he leased it to the Woodvale Golf and Country Club.  What was the name of that maiden aunt of yours, Smith?”

“My Aunt Sarah Emeline Smith,” I replied.

“Yes, yes!  Well, Aunt Sarah Emeline was especially incensed over this act of sacrilege on Smith’s part,” continued this historian, and he followed the facts closely, “and only once since has she stepped foot on the broad acres where her happy girlhood was spent.  It was my good-fortune to meet her on that occasion, and I shall never forget it.”

“Neither shall I,” I said.

“On her visit here Aunt Sarah Emeline persisted in wandering over the links.  She had on a wonderful bonnet, and through it she glared disdainfully at the members of the club who yelled ‘Fore!’ at her.  She was headed for the old mill, which now is used as a caddy house.  I was playing the last hole and thought she was well out of line of a brassey, so I fell on that ball for all I was worth.  I sliced it; yes, I sliced it badly.”