At lunch, having completed eighteen holes out of the thirty-six, we were seven strokes behind the leaders, Simpson and Thomas.  Simpson, according to Thomas, had been playing like a book.  Golf Faults Analysed—­that book, I should think.

“But I expect he’ll go to pieces in the afternoon,” said Thomas.  He turned to a servant and added, “Mr Simpson won’t have anything more.”

We started our second round brilliantly; continued (after an unusual incident on the fifth tee) brilliantly; and ended up brilliantly.  At the last tee we had played a hundred and thirty-seven.  Myra got in a beautiful drive to within fifty yards of the circle.

“How many?” said the others, coming up excitedly.

“This is terrible,” said Myra, putting her hand to her heart.  “A hundred and—­shall I tell them?—­a—­a—­Oh, dear—­a—­hundredandthirtyeight.”

“Golly,” said Thomas, “you’ve got one for it.  We did a hundred and forty.”

“We did a hundred and forty-two,” said Archie.  “Close play at the Oval.”

“Oh,” said Myra to me, “Do be careful.  Oh, but no,” she went on quickly, “I don’t mind a bit really if we lose.  It’s only a game.  Besides, we—­”

“You forget the little pot of home-made marmalade,” I said reproachfully.  “Dahlia, what are the prizes?  Because it’s just possible that Myra might like the second one better than the first.  In that case I should miss this.”

“Go on,” whispered Myra.

I went on.  There was a moment’s silence—­and then a deep sigh from Myra.

“How about it?” I said calmly.

Loud applause.

“Well,” said Dahlia, “you and Myra make a very good couple.  I suppose I must find a prize for you.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Myra breathlessly, “because on the fifth tee we—­we arranged about the prizes.”

“We arranged to give each other one,” I said, smiling at Dahlia.

Dahlia looked very hard at us.

“You don’t mean—?”

Myra laughed happily.

“Oh,” she said, “but that’s just what we do.”

AT PLAY

TEN AND EIGHT

The only event of importance last week was my victory over Henry by ten and eight.  If you don’t want to hear about that, then I shall have to pass on to you a few facts about his motor bicycle.  You’d rather have the other?  I thought so.

The difference between Henry and me is that he is what I should call a good golfer, and I am what everybody else calls a bad golfer.  In consequence of this he insults me with offers of bisques.

“I’ll have ten this time,” I said, as we walked to the tee.

“Better have twelve.  I beat you with eleven yesterday.”

“Thank you,” I said haughtily, “I will have ten.”  It is true that he beat me last time, but then owing to bad management on my part I had nine bisques left at the moment of defeat simply eating their heads off.