"What!"
"Yes; I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep."
"I mean a secret drinker."
"Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker."
"Then a drug-fiend?" I suggested, hopefully.
"I hate medicine."
"I have it!" I said. "A kleptomaniac."
"What is that?"
"A person who steals things."
"Oh, that's horrid."
"Not at all. It's a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don't know you
do it."
"But, if I don't know I do it, how do I know I do it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean, how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don't know?"
"You don't tell him. I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow that
you called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and"--I glanced
about the room--"my silver matchbox."
"I'd rather have that little vinaigrette."
"You don't get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen?"
"Mortimer will hit you with a cleek."
"Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he will
do is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny the
foul charge."
"And then?"
"Then you admit it and release him from his engagement."
She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made an
impression.
"I think it's a splendid idea. Thank you very much." She rose and moved
to the door. "I knew you would suggest something wonderful." She
hesitated. "You don't think it would make it sound more plausible if I
really took the vinaigrette?" she added, a little wistfully.
"It would spoil everything," I replied, firmly, as I reached for the
vinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk.
She was silent for a moment, and her glance fell on the carpet. That,
however, did not worry me. It was nailed down.
"Well, good-bye," she said.
"_Au revoir_," I replied. "I am meeting Mortimer at six-thirty
tomorrow. You may expect us round at your house at about eight."
* * * * *
Mortimer was punctual at the tryst next morning. When I reached the
tenth tee he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and I
handed him a driver, outlined the essentials of grip and swing, and
bade him go to it.
"It seems a simple game," he said, as he took his stance. "You're sure
it's fair to have the ball sitting up on top of a young sand-hill like
this?"
"Perfectly fair."
"I mean, I don't want to be coddled because I'm a beginner."
"The ball is always teed up for the drive," I assured him.
"Oh, well, if you say so. But it seems to me to take all the element of
sport out of the game. Where do I hit it?"
"Oh, straight ahead."
"But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house
over there?"
He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down
the fairway.
"In that case," I replied, "the owner comes out in his pyjamas and
offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar."
He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball. Then he paused
again.
"Isn't there something you say before you start?" he asked. "'Five', or
something?"
"You may say 'Fore!' if it makes you feel any easier. But it isn't
necessary."
"If I am going to learn this silly game," said Mortimer, firmly, "I am
going to learn it _right_. Fore!"
I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginner
without something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a mass of
shapeless clay. I experience the emotions of a creator. Here, I say to
myself, is a semi-sentient being into whose soulless carcass I am
breathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, a
mere clod. A moment hence he will be a golfer.
While I was still occupied with these meditations Mortimer swung at the
ball. The club, whizzing down, brushed the surface of the rubber
sphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with a
slight slice on it.
"Damnation!" said Mortimer, unravelling himself.
I nodded approvingly. His drive had not been anything to write to the
golfing journals about, but he was picking up the technique of the
game.
"What happened then?"