Part 21 (1/2)

”The guv'nor?” she repeated.

”The count,” he said, ”the old toff with the beard.”

Trent produced a Woodbine and lighted it luxuriously. He had all the quick nervous gestures of the c.o.c.kney.

”Where did you learn to play golf like that?” she asked, looking at the white speck almost three hundred yards distant.

”Anyone can make a fluky drive,” he said, ”one drive doesn't make a golfer, Miss. I used to be a caddie at the Royal Surrey Club.”

”Then you can carry my clubs,” she said. She looked at him with a frown.

”How is it the door is open?”

”Someone must have forgot to shut it,” Trent said simply. ”I just walked in.”

All his excuses to get back to his garage were ineffectual.

”You will understand later,” she said imperiously, ”that if I order a servant to obey me he must do so. I wish you to teach me to play better golf. I shall pay you.”

”I'll be glad to have a little extra money to send the mis'sus,” said Trent cheerfully.

”That means you are married, eh?” she said.

”You've 'it it,” he smiled.

He misjudged Pauline if he thought this would have any effect upon her.

She was a specialist in husbands, an expert in emotional reactions.

Pauline played a very fair game. She had not been properly taught. But she was strong and lithe and although she had begun the game in order to keep her figure she played it now because she liked it. When she had performed professionally in London and big provincial cities she had seen that efficiency in some sport or another was _de rigueur_ among women of importance and she hankered after the social recognition that unusual skill at sports often brought with it.

”Make another such drive,” she commanded after she had driven only a hundred yards. ”Not like mine, but like your first.”

Trent having committed himself to a term of caddiedom at a great club where caddies have risen to the heights as professionals, he was not compelled to play a bad game. Pauline had never seen such golf and she wors.h.i.+pped bodily skill at games or sports more than any mental attainments. His short approaches amazed her. The skill with which at a hundred yards he could drop on a green and remain there with the back spin on the ball seemed miraculous.

”I shall play every day,” she decided, ”and you shall tell me how to become a great player.”

”What about me and my motor?” he objected, ”I came to drive a car and not a golf ball.”

”I shall arrange it,” she said, ”Peter Sissek can drive.”

”Not my car,” he cried, ”I'm not going to have no blooming mucker like him drive my Lion.”

Her green eyes were narrowed when she looked at him.

”There are a hundred men who would give all they had for such an opportunity,” she said slowly.

”Let 'em,” he said quickly, ”I'm a chauffeur and mechanic.”

At the last hole she made a poor topped drive and the ball landed in a bad lie. It was an awkward stroke and he corrected her stance and even showed her how to grip the club when suddenly he was struck a tremendous blow on the back of the head. He was thrown off his balance but was up like a cat, dazed a little but anxious to see what had hit him. He thought it was a golf ball. It was Count Michael instead. He looked more like Francis the First than ever. His eyes were blazing with anger. He had stolen upon them unaware at a moment when Trent's hand was holding the white hand of Pauline as he tried to explain the grip.

The count was too angry to understand the look that Trent threw at him or to realize how nearly the pseudo-chauffeur lost control of himself.