Most women golfers are elaborate wagglers, but none that Bradbury had ever seen had made quite such a set of Swedish exercises out of the simple act of laying the clubhead behind the ball and raising it over the right shoulder. For fully a minute, it seemed to him, Mrs. Fisher fiddled and pawed at the ball; while Bradbury, realising that there are eighteen tees on a course and that this Russian Ballet stuff was consequently going to happen at least seventeen times more, quivered in agony and clenched his hands till the knuckles stood out white under the strain. Then she drove, and the ball trickled down the hill into a patch of rough some five yards distant. “Tee-hee!” said Mrs. Fisher. Bradbury uttered a sharp cry. He was married to a golfing giggler. “What did I do then?” “God help you, woman,” said Bradbury, “you jerked your head up till I wonder it didn’t come off at the neck.” It was at the fourth hole that further evidence was afforded the wretched man of how utterly a good, pure woman may change her nature when once she gets out on the links. Mrs. Fisher had played her eleventh, and, having walked the intervening three yards, was about to play her twelfth when behind them, grouped upon the tee, Bradbury perceived two of his fellow-members of the club. Remorse and shame pierced him. “One minute, honey,” he said, as his life’s partner took a stranglehold on her mashie and was about to begin the movements. “We’d better let these men through.” “What men?” “We’re holding up a couple of fellows. I’ll wave to them.” “You will do nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Fisher. “The idea!” “But, darling--” “Why should they go through us? We started before them.” “But, pettie--” “They shall not pass!” said Mrs. Fisher. And, raising her mashie, she dug a grim divot out of the shrinking turf. With bowed head, Bradbury followed her on the long, long trail. The sun was sinking as they came at last to journey’s end. “How right Vosper is!” said Mrs. Fisher, nestling into the cushions of the automobile. “I feel ever so much better already.” “Do you?” said Bradbury wanly. “Do you?” “We’ll play again to-morrow afternoon,” said his wife. * * * * * Bradbury Fisher was a man of steel. He endured for a week. But on the last day of the week Mrs. Fisher insisted on taking as a companion on the round Alfred, her pet Airedale. In vain Bradbury spoke of the Green Committee and their prejudice against dogs on the links. Mrs. Fisher--and Bradbury, as he heard the ghastly words, glanced involuntarily up at the summer sky, as if preparing to dodge the lightning-bolt which could scarcely fail to punish such blasphemy--said that the Green Committee were a lot of silly, fussy old men, and she had no patience with them.