He did
not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What
he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend
of the two.
There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then,
without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away.
* * * * *
Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friend
arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was
alone, he came forward hesitatingly.
"Am I to congratulate you?"
James breathed a deep breath.
"You are!" he said. "On an escape!"
"She refused you?"
"She didn't get the chance. Old man, have you ever sent one right up
the edge of that bunker in front of the seventh and just not gone in?"
"Very rarely."
"I did once. It was my second shot, from a good lie, with the light
iron, and I followed well through and thought I had gone just too far,
and, when I walked up, there was my ball on the edge of the bunker,
nicely teed up on a chunk of grass, so that I was able to lay it dead
with my mashie-niblick, holing out in six.
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