Margot frowned. An absurd thought harassed her, clawing savagely at something she despised, a rigorously suppressed sense of the superstitious. Had a mocking speech been taken seriously? Was this game, so much in her favour already, to be regarded as an epitome of the greater game to be played to a finish between herself and Joyce? By something of a coincidence, the Squire, who shared her desires, was her partner——! Joyce planted her feet firmly in the heather—and smote. “Bravo!” exclaimed Lionel. “The luck has turned. This puts ginger into me.” Sir Geoffrey and Margot applauded generously. The ball pitched in the fairway, and lay, nicely teed up, upon a tuft of grass. Lionel took his brassey. “That ball,” he declared solemnly, “is going on to the green. I know it.” He made a beautiful shot. “Dead, b’ Jove!” growled the Squire. “Not quite,” said Joyce. Lionel and his partner had played “two more.” When they reached the thirteenth green, each side had played three strokes. Margot had to play her ball from the edge of the green. Joyce had a six foot putt. If Margot could lie “dead,” the hole would be halved. It was not very likely that Joyce would hole her putt over a roughish green. Margot took her time, playing with extraordinary care. Her ball trickled within a foot of the hole. “Down ours,” enjoined Lionel to his partner. “You’ll do it, Joyce. It’s a sitter.” Joyce played as carefully as Margot, scrutinising the lie of the ground. Lionel did the same, adding a last word: “Bang for the back of the hole!” “I think so,” said Joyce. She holed out with a smile. “Three up and five to go,” proclaimed the Squire. “Want to double the bet?” asked Lionel. “No, boy, no.” “I will, Lionel,” said Margot. “Right again. Your drive, Joyce.” The fourteenth at Bramshaw is a short hole, an easy mashie shot, if properly played. A topped shot rolls into thick whins. Joyce, still smiling, pitched her ball on the green and overran it. Margot got too much under her ball, which fell short of the green into the bunker guarding it. “Two and four,” said Lionel. “We’re getting on, Joyce. I love playing with you.” The Squire stared at his ball, and then failed to get it out of the bunker. He picked it up, looking sadly at a deep cut in its surface. “My drive,” he said gloomily, fishing a new ball out of his pocket. The fifteenth was halved. The Squire smiled again. Joyce had the honour. She drove steadily, keeping well to the left. Margot felt disagreeably nervous, as she addressed the ball. Going back too quickly, she stabbed down, topping it badly. The Squire whistled. “We’re in trouble, my dear.” They were. The luck had changed. Margot had to play two more after the Squire’s shot. She achieved a fine stroke too late to save the hole. One up and two to play. “Close finish,” said Lionel cheerily.