“Ferdinand Dibble? But why should you wish to bang Ferdinand Dibble on the head with something hard and heavy with knobs on?” “Because he’s such a goop.” “You mean a goof?” I queried, wondering how she could have penetrated the unhappy man’s secret. “No, a goop. A goop is a man who’s in love with a girl and won’t tell her so. I am as certain as I am of anything that Ferdinand is fond of me.” “Your instinct is unerring. He has just been confiding in me on that very point.” “Well, why doesn’t he confide in _me_, the poor fish?” cried the high-spirited girl, petulantly flicking a pebble at a passing grasshopper. “I can’t be expected to fling myself into his arms unless he gives some sort of a hint that he’s ready to catch me.” “Would it help if I were to repeat to him the substance of this conversation of ours?” “If you breathe a word of it, I’ll never speak to you again,” she cried. “I’d rather die an awful death than have any man think I wanted him so badly that I had to send relays of messengers begging him to marry me.” I saw her point. “Then I fear,” I said, gravely, “that there is nothing to be done. One can only wait and hope. It may be that in the years to come Ferdinand Dibble will acquire a nice lissom, wristy swing, with the head kept rigid and the right leg firmly braced and--” “What are you talking about?” “I was toying with the hope that some sunny day Ferdinand Dibble would cease to be a goof.” “You mean a goop?” “No, a goof. A goof is a man who--” And I went on to explain the peculiar psychological difficulties which lay in the way of any declaration of affection on Ferdinand’s part. “But I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life,” she ejaculated. “Do you mean to say that he is waiting till he is good at golf before he asks me to marry him?” “It is not quite so simple as that,” I said sadly. “Many bad golfers marry, feeling that a wife’s loving solicitude may improve their game. But they are rugged, thick-skinned men, not sensitive and introspective, like Ferdinand. Ferdinand has allowed himself to become morbid. It is one of the chief merits of golf that non-success at the game induces a certain amount of decent humility, which keeps a man from pluming himself too much on any petty triumphs he may achieve in other walks of life; but in all things there is a happy mean, and with Ferdinand this humility has gone too far. It has taken all the spirit out of him. He feels crushed and worthless. He is grateful to caddies when they accept a tip instead of drawing themselves up to their full height and flinging the money in his face.” “Then do you mean that things have got to go on like this for ever?” I thought for a moment. “It is a pity,” I said, “that you could not have induced Ferdinand to go to Marvis Bay for a month or two.” “Why?”