"That, Aurora," replied Patricia with a touch of dignity, "is something with which I am remotely concerned." The men came down stairs dressed for the fray, grinning broadly, and Patricia, after a glance at McLemore's red vest, took up his golf bag with a business-like air and led the way to the terrace. The Sphynx blinked through his tauric glasses at her unresponsive back silhouetted in the doorway, but as Aurora had taken Steve's bag, he followed meekly, submitting to the inevitable. Outside, Patricia was indicating a rift in the row of maples which bordered her vegetable garden, through which was to be seen the brown sweep of the meadow beyond. "The drive is through there. You'll get the direction marks for your second. The distance is four miles. The finish is on Aurora's lawn--the putting-green near the rear portico of the house. Drive off, gentlemen." The honor was Mr. McLemore's. With a saddish smile, half of pity and half of a protest for his outraged golfing dignity, he took his bag from Patricia, and with a frugality which did him credit, upturned the bag on the lawn, spilling out a miscellany of old balls which he had saved for practice strokes. Selecting half a dozen, he stuffed five of them in his pockets, returned the newer ones to his bag and scorning the rubber tee which Patricia offered him, dropped a ball over his shoulder and took his cleek out of his bag. Each act was sportsman-like--a fine expression of the golfing spirit. The drive went straight--and they saw it bouncing coquettishly up the meadow beyond. Steve, with the munificence which only poverty knows, brought forth a new ball, took the rubber tee and, with his driver, got off a long low one which cleared the bushes and vanished over the brow of the hill. "A new golfing era has begun," said Patricia, with the air of a prophet. "If I ever find my ball," said Ventnor, dubiously. "What do you care, Steve, as long as you're making history?" laughed Aurora, with a sly glance at their hostess. Patricia, unperturbed, led the way through a breach in the hedge and out into the sunlight where she raised a crimson parasol, which no one had noticed before. "My complexion," she explained to Aurora. "One can't be too careful when one gets to be--ahem--thirty. Besides, it just matches Jimmy's vest." The grass in the pasture was short and McLemore played his brassey--his caddy instructing him as to the ground on the other side, which fell gently down to a brook he could not reach. "I got that one away," said McLemore, livening to his task. "It's not really bad going at all." Patricia smiled gratefully, but made no response, for Steve, a little further on, was in a hole and had to play out with a mashie, which he did with consummate skill, the ball rolling down the hill thirty yards short of McLemore's.