“Love her?” he cried, his voice vibrating with emotion. “Of course I love her. Who wouldn’t love her? I’d be a silly chump not loving her. Do you know,” the boy went on, a look in his eyes like that of some young knight seeing the Holy Grail in a vision, “do you know, she is the only woman I ever met who didn’t overswing. Just a nice, crisp, snappy, half-slosh, with a good full follow-through. And another thing. You’ll hardly believe me, but she waggles almost as little as George Duncan. You know how women waggle as a rule, fiddling about for a minute and a half like kittens playing with a ball of wool. Well, she just makes one firm pass with the club and then _bing!_ There is none like her, none.” “Then you have been playing golf with her?” “Nearly every day.” “How is your game?” “Rather spotty. I seem to be mistiming them.” I was concerned. “I do hope, my dear boy,” I said, earnestly, “that you are taking care to control your feelings when out on the links with Miss Blakeney. You know what you are like. I trust you have not been using the sort of language you generally employ on occasions when you are not timing them right?” “Me?” said Chester, horrified. “Who, me? You don’t imagine for a moment that I would dream of saying a thing that would bring a blush to her dear cheek, do you? Why, a bishop could have gone round with me and learned nothing new.” I was relieved. “How do you find you manage the dialogue these days?” I asked. “When I introduced you, you behaved--you will forgive an old friend for criticising--you behaved a little like a stuffed frog with laryngitis. Have things got easier in that respect?” “Oh yes. I’m quite the prattler now. I talk about her brother mostly. I put in the greater part of my time boosting the tick. It seems to be coming easier. Will-power, I suppose. And then, of course, I talk a good deal about her mother’s novels.” “Have you read them?” “Every damned one of them--for her sake. And if there’s a greater proof of love than that, show me! My gosh, what muck that woman writes! That reminds me, I’ve got to send to the bookshop for her latest--out yesterday. It’s called _The Stench of Life_. A sequel, I understand, to _Grey Mildew_.” “Brave lad,” I said, pressing his hand. “Brave, devoted lad!” “Oh, I’d do more than that for her.” He smoked for a while in silence. “By the way, I’m going to propose to her to-morrow.” “Already?” “Can’t put it off a minute longer. It’s been as much as I could manage, bottling it up till now. Where do you think would be the best place? I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can do while you’re walking down the street or having a cup of tea. I thought of asking her to have a round with me and taking a stab at it on the links.” “You could not do better. The links--Nature’s cathedral.” “Right-o, then! I’ll let you know how I come out.” “I wish you luck, my boy,” I said. * * * * *