She seemed so wonderfully plucky, and even the secretary of the golf club descended from his exalted position temporarily and discussed the matter with Peter Gurney. He disguised it well—interpolated it in between an argument on the rival merits of two top dressings for the greens: and it was only when he retired again to his sanctum that it struck him that any decision on those rival merits was as unsettled as ever. But then Gurney was such an old fool at times—quite unable to concentrate his attention on the point at issue. It was on the third day after her arrival that the man came. Hugh Ralton was not a Portsdown habitué, but he had once spent a week-end there, and he remembered the links as being exactly what he wanted—first-class, without being championship. He had come down to practise for the Active Service Championship, and he had hoped to find the Grand empty. An Eveless Eden was what he wanted—golf without distraction. It was old John who told him Ruth Seaton’s story, told it as if it was a personal insult to himself, an effort perpetrated by "them ’Uns" on Portsdown. And at dinner that evening Ralton looked at her curiously. He noticed the sweet resigned expression on her face, the air of quiet sadness, and then, suddenly, their eyes met. She turned away at once and spoke to Mrs. Garrett. "No, I didn’t play to-day," he heard her say. "I just walked round the—round the old places." And Mrs. Garrett nodded understandingly at her pudding. She would have nodded just as understandingly if she had known that Ruth, having made a special pilgrimage to the hummock by the third tee, had fallen asleep in the sun. But then, Mrs. Garrett understood nothing. And Ruth herself was feeling a little puzzled. "When was Mrs. Seaton’s husband killed?" said Ralton to John that night just before he went to bed. "The Somme, sir," answered the old man, shaking his head. "Pore young thing." But Hugh Ralton only grunted noncommittally and went upstairs. The next day he played his first round. He was plus one at St. Andrews, but, despite that high qualification, one of the curses of the lesser golfer had him in its clutches. He was slicing abominably, and lunatic asylums are very largely kept going by golfers who fail to stop themselves slicing. At the tenth he pulled himself together. Through set teeth he spoke words of contumely to his ball, and then he smote it. There was no doubt about the result: it was not a slice. The ball travelled at right angles to the line of the hole in the direction of square leg—to apply a cricketing metaphor—and it travelled fast. And as he watched it go, with somewhat the expression of a man who contemplates a bad oyster, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Why the devil couldn’t women take their walks on the sea-shore or along the road, or something?