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A Woman is only a Woman
by
“She did!”
“It amounted to the same thing. I had just been telling her how I did the lake-hole today in two, and she said that in her opinion golf was a game for children with water on the brain who weren’t athletic enough to play Animal Grab.”
The two men shivered in sympathy.
“There must be insanity in the family,” said James at last.
“That,” said Peter, “is the charitable explanation.”
“We were fortunate to find it out in time.”
“We were!”
“We mustn’t run a risk like that again.”
“Never again!”
“I think we had better take up golf really seriously. It will keep us out of mischief.”
“You’re quite right. We ought to do our four rounds a day regularly.”
“In spring, summer, and autumn. And in winter it would be rash not to practise most of the day at one of those indoor schools.”
“We ought to be safe that way.”
“Peter, old man,” said James, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about it for some time. I’ve got Sandy MacBean’s new book, and I think you ought to read it. It is full of helpful hints.”
“James!”
“Peter!”
Silently the two men clasped hands. James Todd and Peter Willard were themselves again.
* * * * *
And so (said the Oldest Member) we come back to our original starting-point–to wit, that, while there is nothing to be said definitely against love, your golfer should be extremely careful how he indulges in it. It may improve his game or it may not. But, if he finds that there is any danger that it may not–if the object of his affections is not the kind of girl who will listen to him with cheerful sympathy through the long evenings, while he tells her, illustrating stance and grip and swing with the kitchen poker, each detail of the day’s round–then, I say unhesitatingly, he had better leave it alone. Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times; but there are higher, nobler things than love. A woman is only a woman, but a hefty drive is a slosh.