I'm making arrangements for a lecturing-tour, and
I'm booked up for fifteen lunches already."
Those were his words. A man who had once done the lake-hole in one. A
man whom the committee were grooming for the amateur championship. I am
no weakling, but I confess they sent a chill shiver down my spine.
* * * * *
George Mackintosh did not, I am glad to say, carry out his mad project
to the letter. He did not altogether sever himself from golf. He was
still to be seen occasionally on the links. But now--and I know of
nothing more tragic that can befall a man--he found himself gradually
shunned, he who in the days of his sanity had been besieged with more
offers of games than he could manage to accept. Men simply would not
stand his incessant flow of talk. One by one they dropped off, until
the only person he could find to go round with him was old Major
Moseby, whose hearing completely petered out as long ago as the year
'98. And, of course, Celia Tennant would play with him occasionally;
but it seemed to me that even she, greatly as no doubt she loved him,
was beginning to crack under the strain.
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