He laughed again. "If you want advice on any subject, you go to an expert, don't you? Well, I'm an expert on breaking into print and getting myself talked about. My advice is worth something. I ought to charge for it.... Now there's a notion. How would it do for me to open an office with a sign on the door, Expert Advice on Wild-oats Farming--Years of Experience?" "You seem proud of it." "No, I'm not exactly proud of it. I'm not like little girls who do things for effect." She turned her back and marched to her ball, but before she was ready for the stroke she faced him again. "You're just a naughty little boy throwing paper wads in school," she said, sweetly, "and you think you're a grown man being _devilish_." "Eh?" he said, a bit startled. On the face of it she had merely uttered a saucy, childish gibe, but Potter was struck by it. He tucked it away in his mind for future reference. There were elements of shrewdness, of insight, of _truth_ in it. "I have a puppy who chewed up my best slippers--because he hadn't anything else to do," she said. "Do your friends, by any chance, hint that your tongue is sharp?" he asked. She made no reply, but her driver whistled viciously through the air in a practice stroke. "I'll tell you what," he said, "just to show you I'm forgiving I'll let you play around with me." She looked at him an instant. "I'll give you a stroke a hole," she said. "Eh?" "I've seen you play," she said, calmly. "Drive," he said, with a chuckle. "I ought to put up a cup, oughtn't I?" "Make it a ride in that aeroplane thing of yours," she said. "I've always wanted to see how it felt to fly. Not just go up and come down, but a regular fly." "Not a chance. Your father would assassinate me." "You haven't much confidence in your game, have you? To beat a girl who gives you a stroke a hole." "We'd both break into print. Can't you see it in type? 'Hildegarde von Essen explores the firmament with Potter Waite,' with some account of your career with number of fines for speeding, and references to myself. Not nice." "Fiddlesticks! We shouldn't have to invite any reporters...." "But they'd hear about it. They always do." "A stroke a hole," she jeered. "Very well. Give me a beating and I'll take you flying." He felt confident enough, for he played a fair game of golf. His confidence decreased after the first hole was played. He outdrove her and had the distance of her, but her every stroke was down the center of the course; she never overestimated her strength, and avoided trouble. On the green she holed a twelve-foot putt--and the hole was hers.