It required a good deal of cleverness and self-control to accomplish this, for Lord Ashbridge was a notably puerile performer, but he generally managed it with tact and success, by dint of missing absurdly easy putts, and (here his skill came in) by pulling and slicing his ball into far-distant bunkers.

Throughout the game it was his business to keep up a running fire of admiring ejaculations such as "Well driven, my lord," or "A fine putt, my lord.

Ah! dear me, I wish I could putt like that," though occasionally his chorus of praise betrayed him into error, and from habit he found himself saying: "Good shot, my lord," when my lord had just made an egregious mess of things.

But on the whole he devised so pleasantly sycophantic an atmosphere as to procure a substantial tip for himself, and to make Lord Ashbridge conscious of being a very superior performer.

Whether at the bottom of his heart he knew he could not play at all, he probably did not inquire; the result of his matches and his opponent's skilfully-showered praise was sufficient for him.