e leading topic of discussion is the
coming of the Hardings--or rather a fruitless inquiry as to what gowns
and how many Miss Grace Harding will wear.

They are due to-morrow. I wonder if old Harding knows anything about
N.O. & G. stock? He probably does--and will keep it to himself.

There being nothing else to write about I shall write of myself.

As Chilvers said yesterday, I was born on the farm which now constitutes
the Woodvale golf links. When my father died he willed this land and
other property to me. I take it that a man has a right to do as he
pleases with his own.

The old farm makes a sporty golf course, and I cannot say that I have
ever regretted my action in signing the lease which transfers its use to
the Woodvale Golf and Country Club for a long term of years.

I doubt if the two hundred odd acres ever yielded so large an income as
I now receive semi-annually from the treasurer of the club, but this
does not appeal to my Uncle Henry.

"It is an outrage," he once said to me, with unnecessary adjectives, "to
use the fine old farmhouse, sacred to long generations of Smiths, as an
ell to a club house."

He said other things which I will not repeat. He is a banker, and I
sincerely hope Chilvers does not hit him with a golf ball. That infernal
slice of Chilvers' has already cost me one legacy.

I have traced my ancestry as far back as I dare, and have a certain
amount of reverence for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing.
I must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that the
shades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths were
holding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion of
their mundane haunts.

Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there has
been installed a modern shower bath. The huge old-fashioned dining-room,
with its cavernous fireplace, is now lined on three sides with lockers.
The place above it which was once filled with the blackened oil portrait
of our original Smith is now adorned with an engraving of Harry Varden
at the finish of his drive.

This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet produced
of this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannot
understand how he can grip a club as he does without hooking his ball.

All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one large
room, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out, the place