“What is to be done?” she asked in her precise English. “I grow worse.” “Do you read Ibsen?” he inquired. “I have read him a great deal. But not upon golf,” said Miss Ames with raised eyebrows. “Does your playing suggest any particular character of his?” “You are being absurd. Or is it one of your riddles, at which I am not clever?” “I’m giving you a test in self-analysis. ‘The Ibsen character whom you suggest, particularly when you play your iron shots, is Little Eyolf. The l silent, as in ’Hades.’” “I do not think that a very funny joke,” she said scornfully. “It’s been turned down by three comic papers, though,” he defended. “Then why must I bear it?” “To make the point stick in your memory. Once, quite early in the morning, I came around the corner of a barn on a Philadelphia golf course, and there was a nice-looking elderly lady whom I had seen the day before taking her two small grandchildren out walking, addressing a ball with a brassie and saying, ‘Eye on the ball; slow back; carry through. Eye on the ball; slow back; carry through,’ over and over again. Brassie shots were her weakness. The next day that persevering old grandma went out and made low score in the National Women’s Championship. Now, if you’ll just think of yourself as Little Eyolf until you’re good and mad, it’ll help do the trick.” “What were you doing in Philadelphia?” inquired the girl irrelevantly. “Not golfing,” he returned. “So, if you don’t mind, we’ll postpone that. This is a golf lesson, and right here the serious business of the day begins. The first consideration is to cure you of star-gazing. You appreciate that that’s your main trouble?” “Raising my head, you mean?” “That’s it. Star-gazing, we call it.” “It occurs because I forget myself.” “And mostly on your irons. You get your wooden shots off clean. Now, let’s drive.” Two straight shots flew down the course, his the longer by fifteen yards. A ninety-yard approach lay before her. “Beginneth here the first lesson,” said Jeremy. “It’s a sure cure, on the homoeopathic principle. Invented it myself for a fellow on our college team who was a stargazer, and he showed his gratitude by eliminating me from the individual championship, that fall.” He took a cardboard box from his pocket, and extracted from it one of a number of small, gilt stars such as stationers carry in stock. This he pressed down upon the grass so close behind his pupil’s ball as almost to touch its lower arc. “Behold the star of your hopes.” “What am I to do with it?” “Keep your eye on it--if you can.” “Until after I have struck the ball?” “Longer than that. After you’ve played, step forward and plant the sole of your foot on the star. But you won’t be able to do it. Not the first time.” “I shall,” said the girl with quiet conviction.