They caught him up near one of the greens, and he stood with his hands behind him, and his eyeglass securely fixed, gravely watching them approach and put for the hole.  To him the whole performance seemed absolutely idiotic, but he showed no sign of anything save a mild and genial interest.  Clara, Mannering’s niece, who was immensely impressed with him, lingered behind.

“Don’t you really care for any games at all, Sir Leslie?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“I know that you think me a barbarian,” he remarked, smiling.

“On the contrary,” she declared, “that is probably what you think us.  I suppose they are really a waste of time when one has other things to do!  Only down here, you see, there is nothing else to do.”

He looked at her thoughtfully.  He had never yet in his life spoken half a dozen words with man, woman or child without wondering whether they might not somehow or other contribute towards his scheme of life.  Clara Mannering was pretty, and no doubt foolish.  She lived alone with her uncle, and possibly had some influence over him.  It was certainly worth while.

“I do not know you nearly well enough, Miss Mannering,” he said, smiling, “to tell you what I really think.  But I can assure you that you don’t seem a barbarian to me at all.”

She was suddenly grave.  It was her turn to play a stroke.  She examined the ball, carefully selected a club from her bag, and with a long, easy swing sent it flying towards the hole.

“Wonderful!” he murmured.

She looked up at him and laughed.

“Tell me what you are thinking,” she insisted.

“That if I played golf,” he answered, “I should like to be able to play like that.”

“But you must have played games sometimes,” she insisted.

“When I was at Eton—­” he murmured.

Mannering looked back, smiling.

“He was in the Eton Eleven, Clara, and stroked his boat at college.  Don’t you believe all he tells you.”

“I shall not believe another word,” she declared.

“I hope you don’t mean it,” he protested, “or I must remain dumb.”

“You want to go off and tramp along the ridges by yourself,” she declared.  “Confess!”

“On the contrary,” he answered, “I should like to carry that bag for you and hand out the—­er—­implements.”

She unslung it at once from her shoulder.

“You have rushed upon your fate,” she said.  “Now let me fasten it for you.”

“Is there any remuneration?” he inquired, anxiously.

“You mercenary person!  Stand still now, I am going to play.  Well, what do you expect?”

“I am not acquainted with the usual charges,” he answered, “but to judge from the weight of the clubs—­”

“Give me them back, then,” she cried.

“Nothing,” he declared, firmly, “would induce me to relinquish them.  I will leave the matter of remuneration entirely in your hands.  I am convinced that you have a generous disposition.”