He bowed coldly to Eunice, cast one look of sombre satisfaction at
little Wilberforce, who was painfully extricating himself from a bed of
nettles into which he had rolled, and strode off. He crossed the bridge
over the water and stalked up the hill.
Eunice watched him go, spellbound. Her momentary spurt of wrath at the
kicking of her brother had died away, and she wished she had thought of
doing it herself.
How splendid he looked, she felt, as she watched Ramsden striding up to
the club-house--just like Carruthers Mordyke after he had flung
Ermyntrude Vanstone from him in chapter forty-one of "Gray Eyes That
Gleam". Her whole soul went out to him. This was the sort of man she
wanted as a partner in life. How grandly he would teach her to play
golf. It had sickened her when her former instructors, prefacing their
criticism with glutinous praise, had mildly suggested that some people
found it a good thing to keep the head still when driving and that
though her methods were splendid it might be worth trying. They had
spoken of her keeping her eye on the ball as if she were doing the ball
a favour.
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