But every time you stand there and tell me things about your drive and about mine as if you could really play golf." "Well, but my dear chap--" Merle paused, trying to regain some lost spiritual value--"I'm merely telling you some little things about form." "Forget it!" commanded the other.

"You haven't any form yourself; you don't have form until you can play the game, and then you don't think about it.

Maybe my form doesn't stick out, but you bet it must be tucked in there somewhere or I couldn't hit the ball.

You don't want to think I haven't any just because I don't stand there and make a long speech to the ball before swatting it." "Well, I was only saying----" Merle began again, but in meekness such as Patricia had never observed in him.
Hearing a sound in the background Wilbur turned.

She was staging a pantomime of excessive delight, noiselessly clapping her thin brown hands.