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.

At my suggestion we were playing without caddies. There are times when
these little terrors take all of the romance out of a situation, and I
did not wish to be bothered with them.

On her fourth shot Miss Harding landed her ball in the brook, and it
took quite a time to find it. While we were looking for it Boyd and
LaHume arrived on the tee, and I motioned them to drive ahead.

I have seen this brook a thousand times. It was my greatest source of
amusement and mischief when a boy, but never until this afternoon did I
observe its perfect beauty. Heretofore it has been no more nor less than
a ribbon of water with weed-lined banks and tall rushes, into which a
poor player is likely to drive a ball and lose one or more strokes. It
is one of our "natural hazards," and I have thought no more of it than I
would of the cushion on a billiard table.

I shall never cross that brook again without thinking of her face as I
saw it mirrored in