ready to carry you home again." . And to Siward: "Will you draw for your
lady, Sir? It is the custom."

"Are you my 'lady'?" he asked, turning to Sylvia.

"Do you want me?"

In the smiling lustre of her eyes the tiniest spark flashed out at him--a
hint of defiance for somebody, perhaps for Major Belwether who had taken
considerable pains to enlighten her as to Siward's condition the night
before; perhaps also for Quarrier, who had naturally expected to act as
her gun-bearer in emergencies. But the gaily veiled malice of the one
had annoyed her, and the cold assumption of the other had irritated her,
and she had, scarcely knowing why, turned her shoulder to both of these
gentlemen with an indefinite idea of escaping a pressure, amounting
almost to critical importunity.

"I'm probably a poor shot?" she said, looking smilingly, straight into
Siward's eyes. "But if you'll take me--"

"I will with pleasure," he said; "Dawson, do we draw for position? Very
well then"; and he drew a slip of paper from the box offered by the head
keeper.

"Number seven!" said Sylvia, looking over his shoulder. "Come out to the
starting line, Mr. Siward. All the positions are marked with golf-discs.
What sort of ground have we ahead, Dawson?"

"Kind o' stiff, Miss," grinned the keeper. "Pity your gentleman ain't
drawed the meadows an' Sachem Hill line. Will you choose your dog, Sir?"