It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was a girl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a few weeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new balls into a pond which demanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the one ambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that she might have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokes entirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all the faults and crimes possible to a novice--here was this same young lady playing a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of her strength! When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, then physical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly woman becomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenly sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express in mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going to attempt it. Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play. She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his game. The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch the players on many greens. "Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face through the blue haze of a cigar. "Confess what?" she innocently asked. "Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?" "You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons since then." "Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap by which you won that touring car." "Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will think it a huge joke." "And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in ninety-one," I accused her. "I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club--a putter." "Was that when you won the gold cup?" She shook her head. "What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked. "The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied. "You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you played so atrociously that day?" "Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you seem vastly surprised." "I was--I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.