“Just as you say, sir,” replied Mr. Delancey, courteously. * * * * * Rodney Spelvin drew himself up, and in spite of her loathing for his villainy Jane could not help feeling what a noble and romantic figure he made. His face was pale, but his voice did not falter. “You are right,” he said. “I am not a golfer. But with the help of this splendid girl here, I hope humbly to be one some day. Ah, I know what you are going to say,” he went on, raising a hand. “You are about to ask how a man who has wasted his life as I have done can dare to entertain the mad dream of ever acquiring a decent handicap. But never forget,” proceeded Rodney, in a low, quivering voice, “that Walter J. Travis was nearly forty before he touched a club, and a few years later he won the British Amateur.” “True,” murmured William. “True, true,” said Mr. Delancey and Mr. Brown. They lifted their bowler hats reverently. “I am thirty-three years old,” continued Rodney, “and for fourteen of those thirty-three years I have been writing poetry--aye, and novels with a poignant sex-appeal, and if ever I gave a thought to this divine game it was but to sneer at it. But last summer I saw the light.” “Glory! Glory!” cried Mr. Brown. “One afternoon I was persuaded to try a drive. I took the club with a mocking, contemptuous laugh.” He paused, and a wild light came into his eyes. “I brought off a perfect pip,” he said, emotionally. “Two hundred yards and as straight as a whistle. And, as I stood there gazing after the ball, something seemed to run up my spine and bite me in the neck. It was the golf-germ.” “Always the way,” said Mr. Brown. “I remember the first drive I ever made. I took a nice easy stance--” “The first drive I made,” said Mr. Delancey, “you won’t believe this, but it’s a fact, was a full--” “From that moment,” continued Rodney Spelvin, “I have had but one ambition--to somehow or other, cost what it might, get down into single figures.” He laughed bitterly. “You see,” he said, “I cannot even speak of this thing without splitting my infinitives. And even as I split my infinitives, so did I split my drivers. After that first heavenly slosh I didn’t seem able to do anything right.” He broke off, his face working. William cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes, but dash it,” he said, “all this doesn’t explain why I find you alone with my sister in what I might call your lair.”