"I told you then that some time you would meet a golfing Venus," she said triumphantly, and without waiting for me to make a defense left and joined Miss Dangerfield.

Miss Harding and I waited until we had a clear field ahead of us before we began our game. It was one of the perfect early summer afternoons when it is a delight to live. Oak Cliff is famous for its scenery and for its velvet-like greens.

"I'm going to play my best game this afternoon," announced Miss Harding when I had teed her ball.

"I always play my best game; don't you?" I asked.

"You shall judge of that when we finish this round," she declared.

It was my first game with her since the day she won the touring car from her father, on which occasion she made Woodvale in 116. This was so marked an improvement over her former exhibition that I was at a loss to account for it. Since then Miss Harding had confined her golf to the practising of approach shots and putting, following the instructions given by Wallace. I have been so busy with Wall Street and other affairs that I have paid little attention to golf, and smiled at her enthusiasm.

"How shall we play?" I asked. "You have improved so much and are so confident that I dare not offer you more than a stroke a hole."

"I shall beat you at those odds," she said. "This is a short course, you know."

"You will have to make it in a hundred to beat me," I replied.

"Fore!" she called, and drove a beautiful ball with a true swing which was the perfection of grace. I made one which did not beat it enough to give me any advantage, and we started down the field together.

"Mr. Wallace must be a wonderfully clever teacher," I said, "or else he has a most remarkably apt pupil. I wish I could improve that rapidly."

Miss Harding smiled but declined to commit herself. Her second shot was a three-quarter midiron to the green and she made it like a veteran. She played the stroke--and it is one of the most difficult--in perfect form, and I was so astounded that I cut under a short approach shot and had to play the odd. She came within inches of going down in three, and I then missed a long putt and lost the hole outright, she not needing the stroke handicap.

"One up, Jacques Henri!" she laughed.

She drove another perfect ball on the next hole, but the green was three hundred and fifty yards away and I reached it in two against her three.

My work on the green was abominable and we both were down in fives.

"Two up, Jacques Henri!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Really, now, don't you think I've improved?"

"Improved!" I gasped. "That's not the word for it! You have been translated into a golf magician! I cannot understand it!"

I don't suppose I played my best game, but even if I had I could not have won at the odds stipulated. I never lose interest in a golf game, but I must confess that I paid far more attention to her play than to my own.

It was not the first time that I had witnessed a fine exhibition of golf by a woman, but it was the first time I had been privileged to see a strikingly pretty girl execute shots as they should be made. All former experiences had led me to the belief that feminine beauty and proficiency in golf run in adverse ratio. But here was a superb creature who combined beauty with a skill which was surpa.s.sing.

It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was a girl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a few weeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new b.a.l.l.s into a pond which demanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the one ambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that she might have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokes entirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all the faults and crimes possible to a novice--here was this same young lady playing a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of her strength!

When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, then physical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly woman becomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenly sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express in mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going to attempt it.

Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play.

She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his game.

The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch the players on many greens.

"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face through the blue haze of a cigar.

"Confess what?" she innocently asked.

"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"

"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons since then."

"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap by which you won that touring car."

"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will think it a huge joke."

"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in ninety-one," I accused her.

"I did," she laughed. "It was in a compet.i.tion with one club--a putter."

"Was that when you won the gold cup?"

She shook her head.

"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.

"The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied.

"You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you played so atrociously that day?"

"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you seem vastly surprised."

"I was--I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.

"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you were!"

"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now you confess why you did it."

"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it been decreed that a lady must confess to her chauffeur? Do not forget your place, Jacques Henri. Let's start for the club house; I see papa and others on the lawn."

I have a theory of the truth, but it is too foolish to put in writing.

We made a speedy run to Woodvale after a most delightful afternoon.

ENTRY NO. XVII

THE Pa.s.sING OF PERCY

During the forenoon of the day following our visit to Oak Cliff Mr.

Harding, Carter and I were sitting under the big elm tree near the first tee. We had our clubs with us, but the railroad magnate wished to finish his cigar before starting to play.

A farm wagon drove up the circular roadway which surrounds the club house, and the owner after glancing doubtfully about approached us. He was tall, angular, and whiskered.