refreshments would be served after the first round had been completed
by all. Prizes would be distributed by her ladyship when the final round
was finished. Her ladyship bade us all welcome and was gratified by our
acceptance of her invitation. He would now proceed to read the names
of those who were to play against each other, stating handicaps and the
like. He read accordingly, and I learned that my opponent was to be Mr.
Heathcroft, each of us having a handicap of two.

Considering everything I thought my particular handicap a stiff one.
Heathcroft had been in the habit of beating me in two out of three
of our matches. However, I determined to play my best. Being the only
outlander on the course I couldn't help feeling that the sporting
reputation of Yankeeland rested, for this day at least, upon my
shoulders.

The players were sent off in pairs, the less skilled first. Heathcroft
and I were next to the last. A London attorney by the name of Jaynes
and a Wrayton divine named Wilson followed us. Their rating was one plus
and, judging by the conversation of the "gallery," they were looked upon
as winners of the first and second prizes respectively. The Reverend Mr.
Wilson was called, behind his back, "the sporting curate." In gorgeous
tweeds and a shepherd's plaid cap he looked the part.

The first nine went to me. An usually long drive and a lucky putt on the
eighth gave me the round by one. I played with care and tried my
hardest to keep my mind on the game. Heathcroft was, as always, calm and
careful, but between tees he was pleased to be chatty and affable.

"And how is the aunt with the odd name, Knowles?" he inquired. "Does she
still devour her--er--washing flannels and treacle for breakfast?"

"She does when she cares to," I replied. "She is an independent lady, as
I think you know."

"My word! I believe you. And how are the literary labors progressing? I
had my bookselling fellow look up a novel of yours the other day. Began
it that same night, by Jove! It was quite interesting, really. I should
have finished it, I think, but some of the chaps at the club telephoned
me to join them for a bit of bridge and of course that ended literature
for the time. My respected aunt tells me I'm quite dotty on bridge. She
foresees a gambler's end for me, stony broke, languishing in dungeons
and all that sort of thing. I am to die of starvation, I think. Is it
starvation gamblers die of? 'Pon my soul, I should say most o