[Illustration:  “... and threw it in the pond”]

Chilvers paused and seemed lost in thought.

“Did it hit her?” asked Boyd.

“Of course it hit her,” resumed Chilvers.  “Aunt Sarah Emeline is more than plump, and since it did not hit her in the head I can’t see how it could have hurt her.  She certainly was able to stoop down, pick up that ball and throw it in the pond—­and it was a new ball.  I ran toward her and apologised the best I could, and what she said to me made a lasting impression.  I suppose, Smith, that it was the most expensive sliced ball ever driven on these links?”

“Very likely,” I sadly replied.  “The following day I received a letter from Aunt Sarah Emeline informing me that she had cut me out of her will.  And you still slice abominably, Chilvers.”

“Thus you see that Smith has solid reasons for his prejudice against the gentler sex as golfists,” concluded Chilvers.

I entered a general denial, and the conversation drifted into other channels.  As a matter of fact, my dislike of the woman golfer is based on different grounds.

A pretty woman is a most glorious creature, and I yield to no one in my admiration of the fair sex, but a woman is out of her proper environment when she persists in frequenting a golf course designed for men who are experts at the game.

When I see women on the broad verandas of the Woodvale Club, or when I see them strolling along the shaded paths or indulging in tennis, croquet, and other games to which they are physically fitted, I know that they possess tact and discrimination, but when I see them ahead of me on the golf links—­well, it is different.

Women may gain in health by attempting to play golf, but they do so at the expense of shattered masculine nerves and morals.  When our board of management decided to permit the ladies to have free use of the course at all times except when tournaments are in progress, I resigned as director, but what good did it do?

A woman never is so tenacious of her rights as when she is in the wrong.  I wonder if that is original?

I know of no agony more acute than to be condemned to play golf with women when there is a chance to get in a foursome with good scratch men.  The dyspeptic compelled to fast while watching the progress of a banquet, must suffer similar torture.

“What’s the use of sitting here and talking?” demanded Chilvers.  “It has cooled off; let’s have a foursome.  Marshall and I will play you and Boyd, Smith.  What do you say?”

At this instant the head waiter appeared and said Mr. Thomas wished me to come to his table for a moment.  Thomas was on the other side of the veranda, but I had a suspicion of what was in store for me and arose with a sinking heart.

Thomas is the only good player in the club who is willing to make up a foursome with women, or, as it is most properly called, a “mixed foursome.”  I never saw one which was not mixed before many holes had been played.