se, trudged along again at his heels.

Suddenly it struck Clayton as rather strange that, in all the time since
his return from Europe, only four people had shown any but a sort of
academic interest in the war, and that, ironically enough, a German had
been the first to make a sacrifice for principle. Chris had gone, to get
out of trouble. The little caddie wanted to go, to get a "whack" at the
madmen of Europe. And Jackson, the chauffeur, was going, giving up his
excellent wages to accept the thirty-odd dollars a month of a non-com,
from a pure sense of responsibility.

But, among the men he knew best, in business and in the clubs, the war
still remained a magnificent spectacle. A daily newspaper drama.

Suddenly Clayton saw Audrey Valentine. She was swinging toward him, her
bag with its clubs slung over her shoulder, her hands in the pockets of
an orange-colored sweater. In her black velvet tam and short skirt she
had looked like a little girl, and at first he did not recognize her.
She had seen him, however, and swung toward him.

"Hello, Clay," she called, when they were within hailing distance.
"Bully shot, that last."

"Where's your caddie?"

"I didn't want one. I had a feeling that, if I took one, and he lost a
ball in these impecunious times of mine, I'd murder him. Saw you at the
fifth hole. I'd know your silhouette anywhere."

Under her rakish cap her eyes were rather defiant. She did not want
pity; she almost dared him to pity her.

"Come round again with me, Audrey, won't you?"

"I'm off my game to-day. I'll wander along, if you don't mind. I'll
probably sneeze or something when you're driving, of course."

"Nothing," he said, gravely approaching his ball, "so adds distance to
my drive as a good explosive sneeze just behind it."

They talked very little. Audrey whistled as she walked along with the
free swinging step that was characteristic of her, and Clayton was
satisfied merely to have her companionship. She was not like some women;
a man didn't have to be paying her compliments or making love to her.
She even made no comments on his shots, and after a time that rather
annoyed him.

"Well?" he demanded, after an excellent putt. "Was that good or wasn't
it?"

"Very good," she said gravely. "I am only surprised when you do a thing
badly. Not when you do it well."

He thought that over.

"Have you anything in mind that I do badly? I mean, particularly in
mind."

"Not very much." But afte