“Golf—worse than railroad deals,” replied Florence so quickly that Longacre, who had had time to note Holden’s annoyance, gave her a long consideration. “But you don’t stay out of a game because it’s hard, Holden,” he said. “Suppose we make a foursome.” Florence felt a quickened heart—a thrill that was more than excitement, too keen for joy. Had he looked at Holden as at a rival? Was he trying, this negligent Longacre, to arrange to speak with her, to be near her? Did he miss her so much? He must miss her more. He handed her out at the club veranda, both her hands in his, and she could not help giving him one of her old looks. It got away from her. She saw him flush under it. It went to his head. She kept close to Holden. She walked out to the tee with him, as inconsequently happy, and, she told herself, as silly, as a girl. She knew that Longacre had builded on his knowledge that, while he and she played a fairly fast game, Cissy was a notably wild shot and Holden a duffer. But Florence chose to assume Holden to be her partner, again relegating Cissy to Longacre; and she waived to Cissy the right of the first drive, which, though wild, covered a long space in a forward direction. Longacre’s face, flushed, quivering with irritation, his drive off—a smashing crack that sent the ball a spinning streak—were with her memory over all the course, but she managed her game to keep just from blocking Holden’s, seeing Longacre well away at the second green as the greater party came out to the tee. Diligently coaching Holden, she managed to keep far enough ahead of all but one, the most hardy, the most headlong player on the links. Florence felt pursued and hurried on by that ringing voice, detaching itself in her ears from all other sounds and voices. “Fore!” it rang out, vibrant, musical, across the brown downs. Looking back from her advance to where the play was more congested, she could see the tall figure whose vigor and presence seemed to dominate the links. Florence felt herself sunk in the background of Julia Budd’s identity. The girl’s strokes had rhythm; the movements of her body, harmony. Her voice, that was more a call than a shout, had the sound of half-savage music. Beside her the others seemed triflers. She was splendid in her intensity for the thing in hand, the play—the long swing, the flying ball, the quick pursuit. Florence could feel her waiting at their backs, impatient of delay, her warning “Fore!” urging them forward. With this potent personality pressing her hard, Florence went slowly, warily. Her eye measured the distance as she increased or decreased it between herself and Longacre. Her nerves were tight, but the exercise fostered what color the drive had lent her; and her sense of beginning to handle circumstances, that she had feared were slipping past her, gave her an appearance of serenity.