Potter got up from the table and went out to his car. He wanted to be alone; he wanted fresh air; he wanted to work off the various uncomfortable sensations that possessed him. He drove recklessly out Jefferson Avenue to the Country Club. At this hour it was deserted save for servants. It would do him good, he thought, to play around alone, without even a caddy, so he donned flannels and shoes, and carried his caddy bag to the first tee. Somebody else was teeing off--a girl. Potter did not glance at her, but dropped his bag with a clatter and sat down on the bench to wait till she should get out of his way. "How do you do?" said the young woman. Potter stood up automatically. "Good morning, Miss von Essen," he said, without interest. She turned her back on the ball she had been about to address and walked toward him, slender, graceful, yellow hair blowing out from beneath a tilted tam-o'-shanter. Her face was thin, not especially pretty at first glance, but arresting. The features were distinct, and the expression, even in repose, was one of eagerness--such an expression as one associated with the possession of wit and daring. The expression was akin to pertness, but was not pertness. One knew she could play golf or tennis. One knew she had been a tomboy. One knew she had temper. Her whole appearance and bearing were a perpetual challenge. "Come on," it seemed to say. "Whatever it is, if there's a chance to take, let's do it." Potter knew she was a girl about whom there had been shakings of the head, not so much because of what she had done as because of what she might do. Conservative mothers preferred some other friend for their daughters--and you felt immediately that Hildegarde von Essen delighted to tantalize such matrons and to set their tongues clacking. "You gave away something yesterday that you needed yourself," she said, with directness. "No," said Potter, amused as at a pert child. She was only nineteen. "What was it?" "Advice. 'You'll be breaking into print _good_ one of these days, and there'll be the devil to pay,'" she quoted. "'You'll get yourself talked about if you don't ease off some,' says _you_ to _me_." The effect of it was of a naughty child thrusting out her tongue. "And you take your sanctimonious air right away to the Pontchartrain and drink too much and get into a dis-_grace_-ful fight, and get arrested, and break into print _good_. I s'pose," she said, thoughtfully, "you were jealous--afraid I might steal some advertising and crowd you out." Potter laughed, a good, whole-hearted, boyish laugh. The sort of laugh one likes to hear. "It was funny, wasn't it?" he said. "Impertinent, _I_ call it," she said, sharply.