James paused for a moment for air, and as he paused Miss Forrester spoke.
"This is all gibberish to me," she said.
"Gibberish!" gasped James. "I am quoting verbatim from one of the best authorities on golf."
Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably.
"Golf," she said, "bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game ever invented!"
The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a means of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show James at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes shut, with a semi-circular dotted line marking the progress of his flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There are no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror that froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears.
He had never inquired into Miss Forrester's religious views before, but he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It would be incorrect to say that James's love was turned to hate. He did not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend of the two.
There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then, without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away.
Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friend arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was alone, he came forward hesitatingly.
"Am I to congratulate you?"
James breathed a deep breath.
"You are!" he said. "On an escape!"
"She refused you?"
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