That night Ramsden Walters sat in his study, a prey to the gloomiest emotions. The gold had died out of him by now, and he was reproaching himself bitterly for having ruined for ever his chance of winning the only girl he had ever loved. How could she forgive him for his brutality? How could she overlook treatment which would have caused comment in the stokehold of a cattle ship? He groaned and tried to forget his sorrows by forcing himself to read. But the choicest thoughts of the greatest writers had no power to grip him. He tried Vardon "On the Swing", and the words swam before his eyes. He turned to Taylor "On the Chip Shot", and the master's pure style seemed laboured and involved. He found solace neither in Braid "On the Pivot" nor in Duncan "On the Divot". He was just about to give it up and go to bed though it was only nine o'clock, when the telephone bell rang. "Hello!" "Is that you, Mr. Waters? This is Eunice Bray." The receiver shook in Ramsden's hand. "I've just remembered. Weren't we talking about something last night? Didn't you ask me to marry you or something? I know it was something." Ramsden gulped three times. "I did," he replied hollowly. "We didn't settle anything, did we?" "Eh?" "I say, we sort of left it kind of open." "Yuk!" "Well, would it bore you awfully," said Eunice's soft voice, "to come round now and go on talking it over?" Ramsden tottered. "We shall be quite alone," said Eunice. "Little Wilberforce has gone to bed with a headache." Ramsden paused a moment to disentangle his tongue from the back of his neck. "I'll be right over!" he said huskily. 10 _The Coming of Gowf_ PROLOGUE After we had sent in our card and waited for a few hours in the marbled ante-room, a bell rang and the major-domo, parting the priceless curtains, ushered us in to where the editor sat writing at his desk. We advanced on all fours, knocking our head reverently on the Aubusson carpet. "Well?" he said at length, laying down his jewelled pen. "We just looked in," we said, humbly, "to ask if it would be all right if we sent you an historical story." "The public does not want historical stories," he said, frowning coldly. "Ah, but the public hasn't seen one of ours!" we replied. The editor placed a cigarette in a holder presented to him by a reigning monarch, and lit it with a match from a golden box, the gift of the millionaire president of the Amalgamated League of Working Plumbers. "What this magazine requires," he said, "is red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent dynamic stuff, palpitating with warm human interest and containing a strong, poignant love-motive." "That," we replied, "is us all over, Mabel." "What I need at the moment, however, is a golf story." "By a singular coincidence, ours is a golf story." "Ha! say you so?" said the editor, a flicker of interest passing over his finely-chiselled features. "Then you may let me see it." He kicked us in the face, and we withdrew. THE STORY