ly
sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a
supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express
in mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going to
attempt it.

Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and
with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play.
She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his
game.

The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch
the players on many greens.

"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face
through the blue haze of a cigar.

"Confess what?" she innocently asked.

"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your
game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to
play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"

"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons
since then."

"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning
this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess
the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap
by which you won that touring car."

"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will
think it a huge joke."

"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in
ninety-one," I accused her.

"I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club--a putter."

"Was that when you won the gold cup?"

She shook her head.

"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.

"The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied.

"You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you
played so atrociously that day?"

"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I
was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would
make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you
seem vastly surprised."

"I was--I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.

"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you
were!"

"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now
you confess why you did it."

"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed
into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it
been decreed that a la