The morning found Captain Douglas in a state of reaction. He was anxious to explain quite clearly to Madeleine just how necessary it was that he should go in search of Bealby forthwith. He was beginning to realize now just what a chance in the form of Bealby had slipped through his fingers. He had dropped Bealby and now the thing to do was to pick up Bealby again before he was altogether lost. Her professional life unfortunately had given Miss Philips the habit of never rising before midday, and the Captain had to pass the time as well as he could until the opportunity for his explanation came. A fellow couldn’t go off without an explanation.... He passed the time with Professor Bowles upon the golf links. The Professor was a first-rate player and an unselfish one; he wanted all other players to be as good as himself. He would spare no pains to make them so. If he saw them committing any of the many errors into which golfers fall, he would tell them of it and tell them why it was an error and insist upon showing them just how to avoid it in future. He would point out any want of judgment, and not confine himself, as so many professional golf teachers do, merely to the stroke. After a time he found it necessary to hint to the Captain that nowadays a military man must accustom himself to self-control. The Captain kept Pishing and Tushing, and presently, it was only too evident, swearing softly; his play got jerky, his strokes were forcible without any real strength, once he missed the globe altogether and several times he sliced badly. The eyes under his light eyelashes were wicked little things. He remembered that he had always detested golf. And the Professor. He had always detested the Professor. And his caddie; at least he would have always detested his caddie if he had known him long enough. His caddie was one of those maddening boys with no expression at all. It didn’t matter what he did or failed to do, there was the silly idiot with his stuffed face, unmoved. Really, of course overjoyed—but apparently unmoved.... “Why did I play it that way?” the Captain repeated. “Oh! because I like to play it that way.” “_Well_,” said the Professor. “It isn’t a recognized way anyhow....” Then came a moment of evil pleasures. He’d sliced. Old Bowles had sliced. For once in a while he’d muffed something. Always teaching others and here he was slicing! Why, sometimes the Captain didn’t slice!... He’d get out of that neatly enough. Luck! He’d get the hole yet. What a bore it all was!... Why couldn’t Madeleine get up at a decent hour to see a fellow? Why must she lie in bed when she wasn’t acting? If she had got up all this wouldn’t have happened. The shame of it! Here he was, an able-bodied capable man in the prime of life and the morning of a day playing this blockhead’s game—! Yes—blockhead’s game! “You play the like,” said the Professor. “_Rather_,” said the Captain and addressed himself to his stroke.