As I made a tee for her and carefully placed a new white ball on it, I could not help think of the many times I have sneered and laughed at Thomas, who is the only good player in the club who has really seemed to enjoy a game of golf with one of the opposite sex.

I can see now that I have been very unfair to Thomas.

The man who refuses to play golf with a woman, or who even hesitates, and who justifies such conduct on the plea that she cannot play well enough to make the contest an equal one—­well, he has none of the finer instincts of a gentleman.

I told Marshall and Chilvers so this evening, and they laughed at me.

Both of these men are married, and both used to play golf with their sweethearts when they were engaged.  Once in a great while they now play a round with the alleged partners of their joys and sorrows, but they do it as if it were a penance, and seem immensely relieved when the ordeal is over.  It is pitiful to watch these two ladies forced to play together, while their lords and masters indulge in fierce foursomes, waged for the brute love of victory—­and incidentally, perhaps for a ball a hole.

If I ever marry I shall play with the habitual golfer only when Mrs. Smith is disinclined to favour me with her society on the links.  Chilvers and Marshall say that they made the same resolution—­and kept it nearly six months.  Let them watch me.

Miss Harding missed the ball entirely the first time she swung at it, and both of us laughed heartily.

Now that I come to think of it, nothing used to infuriate me more than to have to wait on a tee for a woman who was wildly striking at a ball.  But one must learn, and it is no disgrace for a lady to miss so small an object as a golf ball.

She hit the ball on the second attempt.  It did not go far, it is true, but it went gracefully, describing a parabolic curve considerably to the right of the line of the green.

Then I drove a long, straight ball, and felt just a little bit ashamed of myself.  It seemed like taking an unfair advantage of my fair opponent.  In fact it seemed a brutal thing to do, but she expressed delight.

“That was splendid, Mr. Smith!” she declared, as my ball stopped rolling, more than two hundred yards away.  “I know that my poor little game will bore you to death, but you invited this calamity.”

“I only wish that—­that I——­” and then I stopped in time to keep from saying something foolish.

“Well?” she said, a smile hovering on her lips.

“I only wish that I could drive as far as that every time,” I continued, “and—­and that you could drive twice as far.”

“What an absurd wish!” declared Miss Harding.

It was worse than absurd; it was stupid!  Imagine a woman driving a ball four hundred yards!  I would never dare marry such a woman, and I came near making some idiotic remark to that effect, but luckily at that moment we came to her ball.  I selected the proper club for her, jabbered something about how to play the shot, and thus got safely out of an awkward situation.