It has rained all day and nothing of interest has happened. The ladies
are clustered on the sheltered side of the veranda. Some are reading,
others are engaged in fancy work. The leading topic of discussion is the
coming of the Hardings--or rather a fruitless inquiry as to what gowns
and how many Miss Grace Harding will wear.

They are due to-morrow. I wonder if old Harding knows anything about
N.O. & G. stock? He probably does--and will keep it to himself.

There being nothing else to write about I shall write of myself.

As Chilvers said yesterday, I was born on the farm which now constitutes
the Woodvale golf links. When my father died he willed this land and
other property to me. I take it that a man has a right to do as he
pleases with his own.

The old farm makes a sporty golf course, and I cannot say that I have
ever regretted my action in signing the lease which transfers its use to
the Woodvale Golf and Country Club for a long term of years.

I doubt if the two hundred odd acres ever yielded so large an income as
I now receive semi-annually from the treasurer of the club, but this
does not appeal to my Uncle Henry.

"It is an outrage," he once said to me, with unnecessary adjectives, "to
use the fine old farmhouse, sacred to long generations of Smiths, as an
ell to a club house."

He said other things which I will not repeat. He is a banker, and I
sincerely hope Chilvers does not hit him with a golf ball. That infernal