"I've no patience with Aurora North," said Patty, "she's absolutely lacking in a sense of proportion. Imagine letting one's life happiness hang on the fate of a single putt." "And Steve is _such_ a dear." "He is, that's the worst of it--and they're eminently fitted for each other in every way--by birth, breeding, and circumstances. As a sportsman Jimmy may be a success, but as a gentleman--as a lover--as a _husband_----" Patricia's two brown hands were raised in protest toward Olympus. "It's odious, Pen, a case for a grand jury--or a coroner!" "Aurora is too nice a girl," sighed Penelope. "Nice! In everything but discrimination. That's the peril of being an 'out-of-door girl.' The more muscle, the less gray matter. That kind of thing disturbs the balance of power." Patricia sighed--"Oh, I tried it and I know. A woman with too much muscle is like an over-rigged yawl--all right in light airs, but dangerous in a blow. What's the use? Our greatest strength after all, is weakness." "I'm sure you couldn't convince Aurora of that--nor Steve." "I don't know," said Patricia, slowly, "but I'd like to try." Further talk was interrupted by the arrival of the crowd from the fair-green, thirsty and controversial. Steve Ventnor, like the good loser that he was, had been the first to shake McLemore by the hand in congratulation, and if he was heavy of heart, his smiling face gave no sign of it. For the present, at least, he had abandoned the field to his conqueror who brought up the rear of the "gallery" with Aurora, accepting handshakes right and left with the changeless dignity which had gained him his sobriquet of "Sphynx." At the veranda steps Mortimer Crabb took him in tow and brought him to the table where Penelope and Patricia were mournfully absorbing lemonade. "Too bad, Steve," said Patricia with a brightness that failed to deceive. "Nobody with mere blood in his veins can expect to compete with a hydraulic ram. He's a wonderful piece of mechanism--Jimmy is--but I'm always tortured with the fear that he may forget to wind himself up some morning. Mort, couldn't you have dropped a little sand in his bearings?" "Oh, he's got plenty of sand," said Crabb generously. "He's a cracking good golfer," said Steve, looking reprovingly at Patricia. "He's the better man, that's all." He sank beside Patricia while Crabb had a steward take the orders. "No," muttered Patricia. "Not that, not the better man, only the better golfer, Steve." And then with a sudden and mystifying change of manner, "Do you know why he always wears a crimson vest?" "No--I've never thought," replied Steve. "It's very--un--er--unprofessional--isn't it?" "It isn't what a man wears that wins holes, you know, Patty." "Oh, no," she said, carelessly, "I was just wondering----"