“You couldn’t make a sounder move, old girl.” “William!” “Jane!” The woman on the bank, glancing up as she turned a page, saw a man and a girl embracing, up to their waists in water. It seemed to have nothing to do with her. She resumed her book. Jane looked lovingly into William’s eyes. “William,” she said, “I think I have loved you all my life.” “Jane,” said William, “I’m dashed sure I’ve loved _you_ all _my_ life. Meant to tell you so a dozen times, but something always seemed to come up.” “William,” said Jane, “you’re an angel and a darling. Where’s the ball?” “There she pops.” “Playing eighty-four?” “Eighty-four it is,” said William. “Slow back, keep your eye on the ball, and don’t press.” The woman on the bank began Chapter Twenty-five. CHAPTER VIII JANE GETS OFF THE FAIRWAY The side-door leading into the smoking-room opened, and the golf-club’s popular and energetic secretary came trotting down the steps on to the terrace above the ninth green. As he reached the gravel, a wandering puff of wind blew the door to with a sharp report, and the Oldest Member, who had been dozing in a chair over his _Wodehouse on the Niblick_, unclosed his eyes, blinking in the strong light. He perceived the secretary skimming to and fro like a questing dog. “You have lost something?” he inquired, courteously. “Yes, a book. I wish,” said the secretary, annoyed, “that people would leave things alone. You haven’t seen a novel called _The Man with the Missing Eyeball_ anywhere about, have you? I’ll swear I left it on one of these seats when I went in to lunch.” “You are better without it,” said the Sage, with a touch of austerity. “I do not approve of these trashy works of fiction. How much more profitably would your time be spent in mastering the contents of such a volume as I hold in my hand. This is the real literature.” The secretary drew nearer, peering discontentedly about him; and as he approached the Oldest Member sniffed inquiringly. “What,” he said, “is that odour of--? Ah, I see that you are wearing them in your buttonhole. White violets,” he murmured. “White violets. Dear me!” The secretary smirked. “A girl gave them to me,” he said, coyly. “Nice, aren’t they?” He squinted down complacently at the flowers, thus missing a sudden sinister gleam in the Oldest Member’s eye--a gleam which, had he been on his guard, would have sent him scudding over the horizon; for it was the gleam which told that the Sage had been reminded of a story. “White violets,” said the Oldest Member, in a meditative voice. “A curious coincidence that you should be wearing white violets and looking for a work of fiction. The combination brings irresistibly to my mind--” Realising his peril too late, the secretary started violently. A gentle hand urged him into the adjoining chair. “--the story,” proceeded the Oldest Member, “of William Bates, Jane Packard, and Rodney Spelvin.”