The Clicking of Cuthbert

love, it looked like a skinned poached egg.

"Unquestionably so," he replied.

"Don't you think he looks more like his father every day?"

For a brief instant the Oldest Member seemed to hesitate.

"Assuredly!" he said. "Is your husband out on the links today?"

"Not today. He had to see Wilberforce off on the train to Scotland."

"Your brother is going to Scotland?"

"Yes. Ramsden has such a high opinion of the schools up there. I did

say that Scotland was a long way off, and he said yes, that had

occurred to him, but that we must make sacrifices for Willie's good. He

was very brave and cheerful about it. Well, I mustn't stay. There's

quite a nip in the air, and Rammikins will get a nasty cold in his

precious little button of a nose if I don't walk him about. Say

'Bye-bye' to the gentleman, Rammy!"

The Oldest Member watched her go thoughtfully.

"There is a nip in the air," he said, "and, unlike our late

acquaintance in the flannel, I am not in my first youth. Come with me,

I want to show you something."

He led the way into the club-house, and paused before the wall of the

smoking-room. This was decorated from top to bottom with bold

caricatures of members of the club.

"These," he said, "are the work of a young newspaper artist who belongs

here. A clever fellow. He has caught the expressions of these men

wonderfully. His only failure, indeed, is that picture of myself." He

regarded it with distaste, and a touch of asperity crept into his

manner. "I don't know why the committee lets it stay there," he said,

irritably. "It isn't a bit like." He recovered himself. "But all the

others are excellent, excellent, though I believe many of the subjects

are under the erroneous impression that they bear no resemblance to the

originals. Here is the picture I wished to show you. That is Ramsden

Waters, the husband of the lady who has just left us."

The portrait which he indicated was that of a man in the early

thirties. Pale saffron hair surmounted a receding forehead. Pale blue

eyes looked out over a mouth which wore a pale, weak smile, from the

centre of which protruded two teeth of a rabbit-like character.

"Golly! What a map!" exclaimed the young man at his side.

"Precisely!" said the Oldest Member. "You now understand my momentary

hesitation in agreeing with Mrs. Waters that the baby was like its

father. I was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand, politeness

demanded that I confirm any statement made by a lady. Common humanity,

on the other hand, made it repugnant to me to knock an innocent child.

Yes, that is Ramsden Waters. Sit down and take the weight off your

feet, and I will tell you about him. The story illustrates a favourite

theory of mine, that it is an excellent thing that women should be

encouraged to take up golf. There are, I admit, certain drawbacks

attendant on their presence on the links. I shall not readily forget

the occasion on which a low, raking drive of mine at the eleventh

struck the ladies' tee box squarely and came back and stunned my

caddie, causing me to lose stroke and distance. Nevertheless, I hold

that the advantages outnumber the drawbacks. Golf humanizes women,

humbles their haughty natures, tends, in short, to knock out of their

systems a certain modicum of that superciliousness, that swank, which

makes wooing a tough proposition for the diffident male. You may have

found this yourself?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," admitted the young man, "now I come to

think of it I have noticed that Genevieve has shown me a bit more

respect since she took up the game. When I drive 230 yards after she

had taken six sloshes to cover fifty, I sometimes think that a new

light comes into her eyes."

"Exactly," said the Sage.

       *       *       *       *       *

From earliest youth (said the Oldest Member) Ramsden Waters had always

been of a shrinking nature. He seemed permanently scared. Possibly his

nurse had frightened him with tales of horror in his babyhood. If so,

she must have been the Edgar Allan Poe of her sex, for, by the time he

reached men's estate, Ramsden Waters had about as much ferocity and

self-assertion as a blanc mange. Even with other men he was noticeably

timid, and with women he comported himself in a manner that roused

their immediate scorn and antagonism. He was one of those men who fall

over their feet and start apologizing for themselves the moment they

see a woman. His idea of conversing with a girl was to perspire and tie

himself into knots, making the while a strange gurgling sound like the

language of some primitive tribe. If ever a remark of any coherence

emerged from his tangled vocal cords it dealt with the weather, and he

immediately apologized and qualified it. To such a man women are

merciless, and it speedily became an article of faith with the feminine

population of this locality that Ramsden Waters was an unfortunate

incident and did not belong. Finally, after struggling for a time to

keep up a connection in social circles, he gave it up and became a sort

of hermit.

I think that caricature I just showed you weighed rather heavily on the