On a fine day in the spring, summer, or early autumn, there are few
spots more delightful than the terrace in front of our Golf Club. It is
a vantage-point peculiarly fitted to the man of philosophic mind: for
from it may be seen that varied, never-ending pageant, which men call
Golf, in a number of its aspects. To your right, on the first tee,
stand the cheery optimists who are about to make their opening drive,
happily conscious that even a topped shot will trickle a measurable
distance down the steep hill. Away in the valley, directly in front of
you, is the lake hole, where [...] Continue Reading…

When Jack Wilton first came to Marois Bay, none of us dreamed that he
was a man with a hidden sorrow in his life. There was something about
the man which made the idea absurd, or would have made it absurd if he
himself had not been the authority for the story. He looked so
thoroughly pleased with life and with himself. He was one of those men
whom you instinctively label in your mind as ’strong’. He was so
healthy, so fit, and had such a confident, yet sympathetic, look about
him that you felt directly you saw him that here was the one person [...] Continue Reading…

It is possible that, at about the time at which this story opens, you
may have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a hair-cut. Many people did;
for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy
countenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clipped
judiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather. And
he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair-food.

It is possible, too, that, being there, you decided that you might as
well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time.

It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had [...] Continue Reading…

In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying the
morning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for their
health, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring,
and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close to
Monte Carlo.

None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was there
because, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable.

What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go over
Niagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with a
skipping-rope would be equally [...] Continue Reading…

Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a
large white statue, labelled ‘Our City’, the figure of a woman in
Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it
for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was
faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror in
evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of
goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York’s speciality. It
changes.

Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she
received Eddy Moore’s letter containing the information that he [...] Continue Reading…

Well-meaning chappies at the club sometimes amble up to me and tap me
on the wishbone, and say “Reggie, old top,”–my name’s Reggie
Pepper–”you ought to get married, old man.” Well, what I mean to say
is, it’s all very well, and I see their point and all that sort of
thing; but it takes two to make a marriage, and to date I haven’t met a
girl who didn’t seem to think the contract was too big to be taken on.

Looking back, it seems to me that I came nearer to getting over the
home-plate with Ann Selby than with most of the others. [...] Continue Reading…

In the smoking-room of the club-house a cheerful fire was burning, and
the Oldest Member glanced from time to time out of the window into the
gathering dusk. Snow was falling lightly on the links. From where he
sat, the Oldest Member had a good view of the ninth green; and
presently, out of the greyness of the December evening, there appeared
over the brow of the hill a golf-ball. It trickled across the green,
and stopped within a yard of the hole. The Oldest Member nodded
approvingly. A good approach-shot.

A young man in a tweed suit clambered on to the green, holed out with
easy confidence, [...] Continue Reading…

A girl stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at the
red roofs of the little village across the water. She was a pretty
girl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to be
troubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a look
of wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of one
who is thinking of her sailor lover.

But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of was
that at about this time they would be lighting up the shop-windows in
London, and that of all the deadly, depressing [...] Continue Reading…