The Clicking of Cuthbert

garden, and on these occasions her stance struck me as graceful. And

once, at a picnic, I observed her killing wasps with a teaspoon, and

was impressed by the freedom of the wrist-action of her back-swing.

Beyond this, I can say little. But she must have been attractive, for

there can be no doubt of the earnestness with which both Peter and

James fell in love with her. I doubt if either slept a wink the night

of the dance at which it was their privilege first to meet her.

The next afternoon, happening to encounter Peter in the bunker near the

eleventh green, James said:

"That was a nice girl, that Miss What's-her-name."

And Peter, pausing for a moment from his trench-digging, replied:

"Yes."

And then James, with a pang, knew that he had a rival, for he had not

mentioned Miss Forrester's name, and yet Peter had divined that it was

to her that he had referred.

Love is a fever which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time on

the address. On the very next morning after the conversation which I

have related, James Todd rang Peter Willard up on the 'phone and

cancelled their golf engagements for the day, on the plea of a sprained

wrist. Peter, acknowledging the cancellation, stated that he himself

had been on the point of ringing James up to say that he would be

unable to play owing to a slight headache. They met at tea-time at Miss

Forrester's house. James asked how Peter's headache was, and Peter said

it was a little better. Peter inquired after James's sprained wrist,

and was told it seemed on the mend. Miss Forrester dispensed tea and

conversation to both impartially.

They walked home together. After an awkward silence of twenty minutes,

James said:

"There is something about the atmosphere--the aura, shall I say?--that

emanates from a good woman that makes a man feel that life has a new, a

different meaning."

Peter replied:

"Yes."

When they reached James's door, James said:

"I won't ask you in tonight, old man. You want to go home and rest and

cure that headache."

"Yes," said Peter.

There was another silence. Peter was thinking that, only a couple of

days before, James had told him that he had a copy of Sandy MacBean's

"How to Become a Scratch Man Your First Season by Studying Photographs"

coming by parcel-post from town, and they had arranged to read it aloud

together. By now, thought Peter, it must be lying on his friend's

table. The thought saddened him. And James, guessing what was in

Peter's mind, was saddened too. But he did not waver. He was in no mood

to read MacBean's masterpiece that night. In the twenty minutes of

silence after leaving Miss Forrester he had realized that "Grace"

rhymes with "face", and he wanted to sit alone in his study and write

poetry. The two men parted with a distant nod. I beg your pardon? Yes,

you are right. Two distant nods. It was always a failing of mine to

count the score erroneously.

It is not my purpose to weary you by a minute recital of the happenings

of each day that went by. On the surface, the lives of these two men

seemed unchanged. They still played golf together, and during the round

achieved towards each other a manner that, superficially, retained all

its ancient cheeriness and affection. If--I should say--when, James

topped his drive, Peter never failed to say "Hard luck!" And when--or,

rather, if Peter managed not to top his, James invariably said "Great!"

But things were not the same, and they knew it.

It so happened, as it sometimes will on these occasions, for Fate is a

dramatist who gets his best effects with a small cast, that Peter

Willard and James Todd were the only visible aspirants for the hand of

Miss Forrester. Right at the beginning young Freddie Woosley had seemed

attracted by the girl, and had called once or twice with flowers and

chocolates, but Freddie's affections never centred themselves on one

object for more than a few days, and he had dropped out after the first

week. From that time on it became clear to all of us that, if Grace

Forrester intended to marry anyone in the place, it would be either

James or Peter; and a good deal of interest was taken in the matter by

the local sportsmen. So little was known of the form of the two men,

neither having figured as principal in a love-affair before, that even

money was the best you could get, and the market was sluggish. I think

my own flutter of twelve golf-balls, taken up by Percival Brown, was

the most substantial of any of the wagers. I selected James as the

winner. Why, I can hardly say, unless that he had an aunt who

contributed occasional stories to the "Woman's Sphere". These things

sometimes weigh with a girl. On the other hand, George Lucas, who had

half-a-dozen of ginger-ale on Peter, based his calculations on the fact

that James wore knickerbockers on the links, and that no girl could

possibly love a man with calves like that. In short, you see, we really

had nothing to go on.

Nor had James and Peter. The girl seemed to like them both equally.

They never saw her except in each other's company. And it was not until