“Too bad. Oh, well,” said Miss Osbaldistone, resignedly, “I suppose I’ll have to go out and get wet. I wish I had had the sense to stop Rodney Spelvin and send him. I met him on the stairs.” “Yes, he was in here just now,” said Jane. Miss Osbaldistone laughed in her hearty manly way. “Good boy, Rodney,” she said, “but too smooth for my taste. A little too ready with the salve.” “Yes?” said Jane, absently. “Has he pulled that one on you yet about your being the original of the heroine of _The Purple Fan_?” “Why, yes,” said Jane, surprised. “He did tell me that he had drawn Eulalie from me.” Her visitor emitted another laugh that shook the samovars. “He tells every girl he meets the same thing.” “What!” “Oh yes. It’s his first move. He actually had the nerve to try to spring it on me. Mind you, I’m not saying it’s a bad stunt. Most girls like it. You’re sure you’ve no cigarettes? No? Well, how about a shot of cocaine? Out of that too? Oh, well, I’ll be going, then. Pip-pip, Bates.” “Toodle-oo, Osbaldistone,” said Jane, dizzily. Her brain was reeling. She groped her way to the table, and in a sort of trance cut herself a slice of cake. “Wah!” said little Braid Vardon. He toddled forward, anxious to count himself in on the share-out. Jane gave him some cake. Having ruined his life, it was, she felt, the least she could do. In a spasm of belated maternal love she also slipped him a jam-sandwich. But how trivial and useless these things seemed now. “Braid!” she cried, suddenly. “What?” “Come here.” “Why?” “Let mother show you how to hold that mashie.” “What’s a mashie?” A new gash opened in Jane’s heart. Four years old, and he didn’t know what a mashie was. And at only a slightly advanced age Bobby Jones had been playing in the American Open Championship. “This is a mashie,” she said, controlling her voice with difficulty. “Why?” “It is called a mashie.” “What is?” “This club.” “Why?” The conversation was becoming too metaphysical for Jane. She took the club from him and closed her hands over it. “Now, look, dear,” she said, tenderly. “Watch how mother does it. She puts the fingers--” A voice spoke, a voice that had been absent all too long from Jane’s life. “You’ll pardon me, old girl, but you’ve got the right hand much too far over. You’ll hook for a certainty.” In the doorway, large and dripping, stood William. Jane stared at him dumbly. “William!” she gasped at length. “Hullo, Jane!” said William. “Hullo, Braid! Thought I’d look in.” There was a long silence. “Beastly weather,” said William. “Yes,” said Jane. “Wet and all that,” said William. “Yes,” said Jane. There was another silence. “Oh, by the way, Jane,” said William. “Knew there was something I wanted to say. You know those violets?” “Violets?”