Mortimer Crabb, unofficial host of the occasion, had beckoned to Aurora and McLemore, who now joined the party. Steve Ventnor rose as the girl approached and their eyes met. Aurora's eyes were the color of lapis-lazuli, but the deep tan of her skin made them seem several shades lighter. They were handsome eyes, very clear and expressive, and at important moments like the present ones her long lashes effectually screened what might have been read in their depths. "I'm sorry, Steve," she said gently. "You didn't have enough practice." "Are you really?" asked Steve. He bent his head forward and said something for Aurora's ears alone, at which her lids dropped still further and the ends of her lips curved demurely. But she did not reply, and turned in evident relief when Crabb made a hospitable suggestion. Patricia watched the by-play with interest. She had followed the romance with mingled feelings, for it was apparent that the triangle which had been equilateral in the spring was now distorted out of all semblance to its former shape, with poor Steve getting the worst of it. The reason was clear. The Sphynx was rich and so could afford to play golf with Aurora every day of the year if he wished, while Steve Ventnor, who spent his daylight hours selling bonds in the city, had to make the most of his Saturday and Sunday afternoons. It was really too bad. But the Sphynx only smiled his unhumorous smile, and went on playing golf during the week when Ventnor was at work. Propinquity had done a damage which even Patricia, with all her worldliness, could not find available means to repair. But she joined good-humoredly in the toasts to the new club champion who was accepting his honors carelessly, keeping her eyes meanwhile on Jimmy McLemore's crimson vest. That vest was a part of Jimmy's golf, as much a part of it as his tauric glasses, his preliminary wiggle on the tee, or his maddening precision on the putting-green. It fascinated her somehow, almost to the exclusion of the gayety in which she rightfully had a part. The gold cup was brought forth and passed from hand to hand. As it came to Patricia she looked at it inside and out, read the inscription leisurely, then handed it carelessly to her neighbor. "Chaste and quite expensive," was her comment. "Oh, I think it's beautiful," said Aurora, reprovingly. "_Chaque enfant à son gou gou_, my dear," said Patricia. "You know, Aurora, I never did approve of golf prizes--especially valuable ones. After all, golf is merely a game--not a religion. It's the habit in this club to consider a golf cup with the same kind of an eye that one gives to a possible seat in Paradise." Even Steve Ventnor thought Patricia's remarks in bad taste. "If Jimmy plays the game of life the way he played golf to-day," he laughed, "he'll have an eighteen-karat halo, and no mistake."