FullReads

“I asked you to come with me to watch the Open Championship.”

“Why don’t you ever take me to dances?”

“I can’t dance.”

“You could learn.”

“But I’m not sure if dancing is a good thing for a fellow’s game. You never hear of any first-class pro. dancing. James Braid doesn’t dance.”

“Well, my mind’s made up. Mortimer, you must choose between golf and me.”

“But, darling, I went round in a hundred and one yesterday. You can’t expect a fellow to give up golf when he’s at the top of his game.”

“Very well. I have nothing more to say. Our engagement is at an end.”

“Don’t throw me over, Betty,” pleaded Mortimer, and there was that in his voice which cut me to the heart. “You’ll make me so miserable. And, when I’m miserable, I always slice my approach shots.”

Betty Weston drew herself up. Her face was hard.

“Here is your ring!” she said, and swept from the room.

* * * * *

For a moment after she had gone Mortimer remained very still, looking at the glistening circle in his hand. I stole across the room and patted his shoulder.

“Bear up, my boy, bear up!” I said.

He looked at me piteously.

“Stymied!” he muttered.

“Be brave!”

He went on, speaking as if to himself.

“I had pictured–ah, how often I had pictured!–our little home! Hers and mine. She sewing in her arm-chair, I practising putts on the hearth-rug—-” He choked. “While in the corner, little Harry Vardon Sturgis played with little J. H. Taylor Sturgis. And round the room–reading, busy with their childish tasks–little George Duncan Sturgis, Abe Mitchell Sturgis, Harold Hilton Sturgis, Edward Ray Sturgis, Horace Hutchinson Sturgis, and little James Braid Sturgis.”

“My boy! My boy!” I cried.

“What’s the matter?”

“Weren’t you giving yourself rather a large family?”

He shook his head moodily.

“Was I?” he said, dully. “I don’t know. What’s bogey?”

There was a silence.

“And yet—-” he said, at last, in a low voice. He paused. An odd, bright look had come into his eyes. He seemed suddenly to be himself again, the old, happy Mortimer Sturgis I had known so well. “And yet,” he said, “who knows? Perhaps it is all for the best. They might all have turned out tennis-players!” He raised his niblick again, his face aglow. “Playing thirteen!” he said. “I think the game here would be to chip out through the door and work round the club-house to the green, don’t you?”

* * * * *

Little remains to be told. Betty and Eddie have been happily married for years. Mortimer’s handicap is now down to eighteen, and he is improving all the time. He was not present at the wedding, being unavoidably detained by a medal tournament; but, if you turn up the files and look at the list of presents, which were both numerous and costly, you will see–somewhere in the middle of the column, the words:

STURGIS, J. MORTIMER.
Two dozen Silver King Golf-balls and one patent Sturgis
Aluminium Self-Adjusting, Self-Compensating Putting-Cleek.