To anybody but Mortimer her nervousness would have been even more obvious on the following morning, as they reached the first tee. Her eyes were dull and heavy, and she started when a grasshopper chirruped. But Mortimer was too occupied with thinking how jolly it was having the course to themselves to notice anything. He scooped some sand out of the box, and took a ball out of her bag. His wedding present to her had been a brand-new golf-bag, six dozen balls, and a full set of the most expensive clubs, all born in Scotland. "Do you like a high tee?" he asked. "Oh, no," she replied, coming with a start out of her thoughts. "Doctors say it's indigestible." Mortimer laughed merrily. "Deuced good!" he chuckled. "Is that your own or did you read it in a comic paper? There you are!" He placed the ball on a little hill of sand, and got up. "Now let's see some of that championship form of yours!" She burst into tears. "My darling!" Mortimer ran to her and put his arms round her. She tried weakly to push him away. "My angel! What is it?" She sobbed brokenly. Then, with an effort, she spoke. "Mortimer, I have deceived you!" "Deceived me?" "I have never played golf in my life! I don't even know how to hold the caddie!" Mortimer's heart stood still. This sounded like the gibberings of an unbalanced mind, and no man likes his wife to begin gibbering immediately after the honeymoon. "My precious! You are not yourself!" "I am! That's the whole trouble! I'm myself and not the girl you thought I was!" Mortimer stared at her, puzzled. He was thinking that it was a little difficult and that, to work it out properly, he would need a pencil and a bit of paper. "My name is not Mary!" "But you said it was." "I didn't. You asked if you could call me Mary, and I said you might, because I loved you too much to deny your smallest whim. I was going on to say that it wasn't my name, but you interrupted me." "Not Mary!" The horrid truth was coming home to Mortimer. "You were not Mary Somerset?" "Mary is my cousin. My name is Mabel." "But you said you had sprained your wrist playing in the championship." "So I had. The mallet slipped in my hand." "The mallet!" Mortimer clutched at his forehead. "You didn't say 'the mallet'?" "Yes, Mortimer! The mallet!" A faint blush of shame mantled her cheek, and into her blue eyes there came a look of pain, but she faced him bravely. "I am the Ladies' Open Croquet Champion!" she whispered. Mortimer Sturgis cried aloud, a cry that was like the shriek of some wounded animal. "Croquet!" He gulped, and stared at her with unseeing eyes. He was no prude, but he had those decent prejudices of which no self-respecting man can wholly rid himself, however broad-minded he may try to be. "Croquet!" There was a long silence. The light breeze sang in the pines above them. The grasshoppers chirrupped at their feet. She began to speak again in a low, monotonous voice.