erson could be bothered with it. They squabbled about it gently,
never suspecting that it might come to matter.

Fate fought against Freda.

Martin, whenever during these days he handled a club, found that he
could do nothing wrong: he was "on his game." And the Cartmells came
down for the Easter recess. Godfrey had captured the seat two years
ago and had settled down comfortably on a back bench from which his
wife intended to oust him. But the back-bencher may live strenuous
nights and days: he too was tired and wanted air and exercise. And so
in the afternoons Martin was called upon as much by civility as by the
craving of his heart to motor with them to the golf-course and join in
a foursome. Desperate warfare took place in which Martin was Viola's,
Godfrey Margaret Berrisford's ally. And Martin was wonderful. His
drives flew far and low, straight for the flag or the direction post:
no ugly jarring told him of the topped iron-shot: his short putts ran
straight into the middle of the hole. He dug his partner's foozled
drives out of heather and hedge and laid her wild approaches dead with
a niblick. Up on that lonely course with only the wind and the white
clouds for neighbours, with no one to keep them back or hurry them on,
with turf so springy that a foot could never tire, so spongy-soft that
a brassie might be lightly taken and effectively wielded, with the
exquisite strain of even conflict, with matches taken to the last green
and won, perhaps by Martin's inimitable 'run-up'--yes, it was golf.

The joy of it was almost insupportable. Martin began to live for those
afternoons; yet, if he had been off his game, had sliced with his
driver and topped with his irons, as was indeed his wont, the golf-club
would have lost its appeal: there is little pleasure in playing golf
badly, but there is all the world in playing above your form.

Once Freda came up to watch them and walk as far as she could. But she
was plainly bored, pleaded fatigue, and went back to the little
club-house where she sat reading. To Martin, in his present mood of
triumphant exultation, it seemed incredible that anyone could fail to
see the point of it.

He tried to convince her. "Perhaps you can't imagine the thrill that
conies from a really true hit: really it's one of the few good things
in the world. The ball goes off clean and sweet and leaves you with a
faint tingling that lets you know you've done the trick. And then you
c