Miss Dangerfield was so taken with this idea that she speedily forgot that brute Pepper.

Coming in we were passed by Marshall, Chilvers, Carter, and Boyd.  How I envied them!  We stood and silently watched while each made ripping long drives.  There is nothing which contributes more to a man’s good opinion of himself than to line a ball straight out two hundred yards when a bevy of pretty girls is watching him.

The tendency of the woman golfer to frankly express her admiration for the strength and skill of a man who can drive a clean and long ball is her great redeeming trait when on the links.

The man who is careless of the praise of his male peers is prone to be raised to the seventh heaven of golf bliss when listening to the long-drawn chorus of “Oh!” “Wasn’t that splendid!” “I could just die if I could drive like that!” and similar expressions from dainty maidens who do not know the difference between a follow through and a jigger.

An ideal golf course would be one where the members of the fair sex are content to group themselves about the driving tees and award an honest meed of praise and applause to their fathers, husbands, or sweethearts.

“You’re up, Thomas,” I said when the crack foursome was out of range.

Thomas basted out a screecher, and Miss Ross followed with the best shot she ever made.  Miss Dangerfield missed as usual.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “but I’m sure you will do better than Mr. Thomas.”

In my anxiety to verify her prediction I pressed, topped my ball, and it rolled into the bunker.  Chilvers looked back and grinned and then said something to Marshall at which both of them laughed.

Of course we were beaten, and beaten disgracefully.  Miss Dangerfield did not take it the least to heart, but the dinner did not cost her thirty-two dollars.  Not that I care for the money, but it is the first time this year that my score has been more than ninety.

I can take Thomas out alone and beat him so badly he will not dare turn in his score, but in a mixed foursome he can put it all over me.

It does not take much to throw a man off his golf game.  For instance:  My private secretary came up from the city early this morning.  Among other matters he called my attention to the fact that my N.O. & G. railway stock has dropped three points during the week.  I seldom indulge in stock speculation, but was induced to buy two thousand shares of this security on what I believed to be inside information.  The stock is now selling at five points below my purchase price, a paper loss of $10,000.

“Your brokers inform me that unless you desire to take your losses it will be necessary to put up a ten-point margin,” said my secretary.

“That means a cheque for $20,000, I presume,” I observed, making a hurried calculation.  He said it did, and I gave it to him.

As soon as he had gone I went out with Kirkaldy, our club professional, and played a few holes before luncheon, hoping to get that confounded N.O. & G. stock affair out of my mind so that I could play a good game in the afternoon.  I made the fifth hole in five, which reminded me that the cursed stock had dropped five points.  As a consequence I drove wide on the next hole, and Kirkaldy won half a dozen balls from me.