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Chris had gone, to get out of trouble. The little caddie wanted to
go, to get a "whack" at the madmen of Europe. And Jackson, the
chauffeur, was going, giving up his excellent wages to accept the
thirty-odd dollars a month of a non-com, from a pure sense of
responsibility.
But, among the men he knew best, in business and in the clubs, the
war still remained a magnificent spectacle. A daily newspaper drama.
Suddenly Clayton saw Audrey Valentine. She was swinging toward him,
her bag with its clubs slung over her shoulder, her hands in the
pockets of an orange-colored sweater. In her black velvet tam and
short skirt she had looked like a little girl, and at first he did
not recognize her. She had seen him, however, and swung toward him.
"Hello, Clay," she called, when they were within hailing distance.
"Bully shot, that last."
"Where's your caddie?"
"I didn't want one. I had a feeling that, if I took one, and he
lost a ball in these impecunious times of mine, I'd murder him.


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