"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this one. You watch me." She kept her promise--kept it with a savage hook, which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ball carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and disappeared without even a bounce. "That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away." Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar, lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit, however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through that tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green. We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary. "Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!" By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied the shot. It was an absurdly simple one--a 30-foot approach over a level green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if Beth missed her ten-footer---- "It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!" Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it stopped. Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery. "Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm afraid you're away." Waddles pinched my arm. "Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She threw him down--threw him down cold!" Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole the putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball within three inches of the cup. "Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it--and let's get it done with!" Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over. "Why--why," stuttered Beth, "then--we've _won_!" At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the clubhouse. "We had it won--if you'd only listened to me----" Russell began. "Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all the afternoon--listening and learning!" * * * * *