The idea which now came to James was that he and Peter should settle their rivalry by an eighteen-hole match on the links. He thought very highly of the idea before he finally went to sleep, and in the morning the scheme looked just as good to him as it had done overnight.     

       James was breakfasting next morning, preparatory to going round to disclose his plan to Peter, when Peter walked in, looking happier than he had done for days.     

       "'Morning," said James.     

       "'Morning," said Peter.     

       Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon.     

       "I've got an idea," he said.     

       "One isn't many," said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk-shot on a fried egg. "What is your idea?"     

       "Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if either of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair chance. You know what I mean—with Her. At present we've got each other stymied. Now, how would it be," said Peter, abstractedly spreading marmalade on his bacon, "if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the loser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to give the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?"     

       James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with his fork.     

       "That's exactly the idea I got last night, too."     

       "Then it's a go?"     

       "It's the only thing to do."     

       There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, they were friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, and golf-balls, and sliced into the same bunkers.     

       Presently Peter said:     

       "I shall miss you."     

       "What do you mean, miss me?"     

       "When you're gone. Woodhaven won't seem the same place. But of course you'll soon be able to come back. I sha'n't waste any time proposing."     

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