Rollo could find no words. He yammered speechlessly. Yes, for several nights the arrowroot had tasted very rummy. Rummy! There was no other adjective. Even as he plied the spoon he had said to himself: “This arrowroot tastes rummy!” And--he uttered a sharp yelp as he remembered--it had been little Lettice who had brought it to him. He recollected being touched at the time by the kindly act. “What _is_ the matter, Rollo?” demanded Mrs. Willoughby, sharply. “Don’t stand there looking like a dying duck.” “I am a dying duck,” responded Rollo, hoarsely. “A dying man, I mean. Enid, that infernal child has poisoned me!” “Don’t be ridiculous! And kindly don’t speak of her like that!” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t blame her, I suppose. No doubt her motives were good. But the fact remains.” “Rollo, you’re too absurd.” “But the arrowroot tasted rummy.” “I never knew you could be such an idiot,” said his exasperated sister with sisterly outspokenness. “I thought you would think it quaint. I thought you would roar with laughter.” “I did--till I remembered about the rumminess of the arrowroot.” Mrs. Willoughby uttered an impatient exclamation and walked away. Rollo Podmarsh stood on the tenth tee, a volcano of mixed emotions. Mechanically he pulled out his pipe and lit it. But he found that he could not smoke. In this supreme crisis of his life tobacco seemed to have lost its magic. He put the pipe back in his pocket and gave himself up to his thoughts. Now terror gripped him; anon a sort of gentle melancholy. It was so hard that he should be compelled to leave the world just as he had begun to hit ’em right. And then in the welter of his thoughts there came one of practical value. To wit, that by hurrying to the doctor’s without delay he might yet be saved. There might be antidotes. He turned to go and there was Mary Kent standing beside him with her bright, encouraging smile. “I’m sorry I kept you so long,” she said. “It’s your honour. Fire away, and remember that you’ve got to do this nine in fifty-three at the outside.” Rollo’s thoughts flitted wistfully to the snug surgery where Dr. Brown was probably sitting at this moment surrounded by the finest antidotes. “Do you know, I think I ought to--” “Of course you ought to,” said Mary. “If you did the first nine in forty-six, you can’t possibly take fifty-three coming in.”