With a sigh of relief, Jacob handed his driver to the caddy and watched the career of a truly hit ball down the smooth fairway. There was a little murmur of applause from a hundred or so of onlookers. By that stroke, Jacob had opened the Cropstone Wood Golf Links.

“Pretty certain where your name will come on the handicap list, Mr. Pratt,” his opponent observed, after his own somewhat inferior effort.

“If I can qualify for scratch,” Jacob replied, as they marched off together, first of twenty-three couples of prize-competing Cropstone Woodites, “one of the ambitions of my life will be gratified.”

What really were his ambitions, Jacob wondered, in the pretty little luncheon room at the club an hour or so later, as he resumed his seat amidst a storm of applause, having renounced to the next successful competitor the cup which he had himself presented and won. Upon the handicap sheet the magic letter “Scr.” had already been emblazoned opposite to his name, as the result of a very sound seventy-nine on an eighty bogey course. There was scarcely one of his investments which was not prospering. His health was perfect. There were many people leaning upon him, and not in vain, for happiness. He had been obliged to put a limit on the premium which might be paid for houses on the Cropstone Wood Estate, and even then, notwithstanding his unwonted liberality in the matter of a tennis club, golf course and swimming bath, the investment introduced to him in so unpropitious a manner was a thoroughly remunerative one. He had won four first prizes at the Temple Flower Show. His bungalow at Marlingden was the admiration of all the neighbourhood, his flat at the Milan Court the last word in luxury and elegance. And yet there was a void.

He looked out of the windows of the clubhouse at the cottage where Sybil Bultiwell and her mother had first taken up their abode, and his thoughts wandered away from the uproarious little scene over which he was presiding. Called to himself by the necessity of acknowledging a universal desire to drink his health, he looked around the table and realised what it was that he lacked. There were a dozen women present, comely enough, but only in one or two cases more than ordinarily good-looking; they were there because they were the helpmates of the men who brought them, sharers in their daily struggle, impressed with the life duty of sympathy, houseproud a little, perhaps, and with some of the venial faults of a small community, but—their husbands’ companions, the “alter ego” of the man whose nature demands the leaven of sentiment as the flowers need their morning bath of dew. And Jacob still lived and was alone. On his right sat the proud and buxom mother of the captain of the club, a young bank clerk; on his left, the wife of the secretary, a lady who persisted in remaining good-looking although she had eight children and but a single nursemaid.

“And only one word more,” the secretary concluded, crumpling up the typewritten slips in his hand, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and trying to convey the impression that the whole of what had gone before had come from his lips as spontaneously as these last few words. “I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to drink the health of our president and generous benefactor, Mr. Jacob Pratt, and when we all meet again next year, as a married man I have only one wish to add to those which we have already expressed, and that is that there may be a Mrs. Jacob Pratt to share in his pleasures, his triumphs, and, if by any evil chance he should ever have any, his sorrows.”

There were rounds of applause. Every one stood up and held out their glasses towards him, and Jacob was forced back again into this very real world of men and women made comfortable in their daily lives by his efforts. He said his few words of thanks simply but gracefully and, in accordance with the programme of the day, they trooped out afterwards to the lawn in front of the freshly plastered clubhouse and drank their coffee at small round tables, looking down the course, discussing the various holes, and making matches for the next Saturday afternoon and Sunday. A girl at the adjoining table leaned over and asked him a question.

“Do you know what has become of the Bultiwells, Mr. Pratt?” she enquired.

“Mrs. Bultiwell, I believe, went to stay with some relatives in Devonshire,” he replied. “The last I heard of Miss Bultiwell was that she had taken a position as governess somewhere near Belgrave Square.”

“A governess!” his questioner repeated. “Fancy her not being married! Don’t you think she’s awfully pretty, Mr. Pratt?”

“I do,” Jacob agreed.

“And so good at tennis, too,” the girl continued. “I wish she’d come back.”

“Quite a tragical story, her father’s death,” a man at the same table observed. “I don’t know whether you ever heard about it, Mr. Pratt. He was a leather merchant in a very large way in the city, but got into difficulties somehow. His one hope was that a friend who had a lot of money would come into partnership with him. It seems that the friend not only refused to do so when the moment came, but was rather rough on poor old Bultiwell about the way he had been conducting his business—so much so that he blew out his brains in the office, an hour or so after their interview.”

“How brutal of the friend!” the girl observed. “He might have let him down gently. You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you, Mr. Pratt?”

Jacob opened his lips to tell the truth, but closed them again. After all, why should he say a single word to mar the pervading impression of good-heartedness and happiness? The man was so anxious to improve his acquaintance with Jacob; the girl, who had moved her chair as though unconsciously a little closer to his, even more so. He met the smiling question in her eyes a little gravely but with no lack of friendliness.

“One never knows quite what one would do under certain circumstances,” he said. “If Mr. Bultiwell, for instance, had tried to deceive his friend and had been found out, I imagine it is only fair that he should have heard the truth.”

“He must have been told it in a cruel way, though, or he would never have committed suicide,” the girl persisted. “I am quite sure that you couldn’t do anything in a cruel way, Mr. Pratt.”

“I am going to be cruel to myself, at any rate,” Jacob replied, “and go over and start those foursomes.”

Jacob rose to his feet. The girl’s look of disappointment was so ingenuous that he turned back to her.

“Won’t you come with me, Miss Haslem?” he invited.

She sprang up and walked gladly by his side, chattering away as they stood on a slight eminence overlooking the first tee, using all the simple and justifiable weapons in her little armoury of charms to win a smile and a little notice, perhaps even a later thought from the great man of the day whose wealth alone made him seem almost like a hero of romance. She was a pleasant-faced girl, with clear brown eyes and masses of hair brushed back from her forehead and left unhandicapped by any headgear to dazzle the eye of the beholder. Her blouse was cut a little low, but the writer of the young ladies’ journal, who had sent her the pattern, had assured her that it was no lower than fashion permitted. Her white skirt was a little short, and her stockings were very nearly silk. She was twenty-two years old, fairly modest, moderately truthful, respectably brought up, but she was the eldest of four, and she would have fallen at Jacob’s feet and kissed the ground beneath them for a sign of his favour. Jacob, with the echoes of that tragic story still in his ears, wondered, as he stood with his hands behind his back, whether in those few minutes, when he had taken his meed of revenge, he had indeed raised up a ghost which was to follow him through life. More than anything in the world, what he wanted besides the good-fellowship of other men was the love and companionship of a wife. Was his to be the dream of Tantalus? Here, young womanhood of his own class, eager, sufficiently comely, stood striving to weave the spell of her sex upon him, with a lack of success which was almost pitiable. It was the selective instinct with which he was cursed. Something had even gone from the sad pleasure with which he used to be able to conjure up pictures of Sybil. It was almost as though the thought of her had ceased to attract him, and with the passing of the spell which she had laid upon him had come a passion as strong as ever for her sex, coupled with hopeless and glacial indifference to its human interpretesses. The girl began to feel the strain of a monosyllabic listener, but she had the courage of a heroine. She clutched her companion’s arm as her father topped his drive from the first tee. As though by accident, her fingers remained on Jacob’s coat sleeve.

“Poor dad!” she sighed. “Did you see him miss his drive? He’ll be so disappointed. He used to play quite well, but that wretched City—he doesn’t seem to be able to shake it off, nowadays. I wonder why it’s so difficult, Mr. Pratt,” she added, raising her eyes artlessly to his, “for some people to make money?”

“We haven’t all the same luck,” Jacob observed.

“Dad rushes home on Saturdays so tired,” she went on, “and then wonders why he plays golf so badly, wonders why mother isn’t always cheerful, and why we girls can’t dress on twopence a week. Why, stockings alone,”—she lifted her foot from the ground, gazed pensively at it for a moment and then suddenly returned it. Her ankle was certainly shapely, and the brevity of her skirts and a slight breeze permitted a just appreciation of a good many inches of mysterious white hose. “But of course you don’t know anything about the price of women’s clothes,” she broke in with a laugh. “I hope you don’t mind my hair looking a perfect mop. I never can keep it tidy out of doors, and I hate a hat.”

Jacob patiently did his best.

“I like to see girls without their hats when they have hair as pretty as yours,” he assured her, “and some day or other you must play me a round of golf for a dozen pairs of stockings.”

“Wouldn’t I just love to!” she exclaimed with joy. “Now or any other old time! I warn you that I should cheat, though. The vision of a dozen pairs of stockings melting into thin air because of your wonderful play would be too harrowing.—What on earth is that?”

Jacob, too, was listening with an air of suddenly awakened interest. Up the hill came a black speck, emitting from behind a cloud of smoke and punctuating its progress with the customary series of explosions.

“I do wish I had a two-seater,” the girl sighed.

“I rather believe it’s some one for me,” Jacob said, stepping eagerly forward.

The girl remained by his side. Felix brought the car to the side of the road which wound its way across the common, shook the dust from his clothes and waved his hand joyously to Jacob.

“Forty-seven minutes, my revered chief!” he exclaimed, as he approached, waving a missive in his hand. “See what it is to have some one amongst your bodyguard who can perform miracles!”

“What have you brought?” Jacob asked.

“A cable! Dauncey thought I had better bring it down.”

Jacob read it, and read it over again. It was a dispatch from New York, handed in that morning:

Jacob folded up the dispatch and placed it in his breast pocket. Then he suddenly remembered the girl.

“Felix,” he said, “let me present you to Miss Haslem. Lord Felixstowe—Miss Haslem.”

The two young people exchanged the customary greetings. The girl began to apologise for her hair. Her cup of happiness was very nearly filled. And then Jacob dashed it to the ground.

“I want you to take me back to town as soon as you’ve had a drink,” he intervened, addressing the young man. “We sail for America to-morrow.”