"Have you played St. Andrews?" she asked, her eyes wide.
"Gray St. Andrews?" I said with a reminiscent smile. "Yes, I have, once."
"It must have been exciting," she said. "What did you go around in?"
"Listen," I told her, downing the last of the drink, "let's get started." Harry brought over a chit, and I signed it. "I don't suppose there are any caddies available," I said to him. He reflected a moment and then said he thought not.
"We'll drag our own," I told her. She had a third of a drink left. "Don't get sozzled on me, chickie," I told her, "because you won't be able to concentrate. That's your first lesson—concentration." She nodded obediently.
"I'll put on my track shoes and meet you at the first tee in about 15 minutes," I said. "Hokay?"
"Fine," she said, her eyes round with gratitude.
In my willingness to be of help to this stranger, I forgot lunch. It shows when you go out of your way to do a good turn you generally pay for it.
She came out to the tee, where I was waiting, with a jaunty little golf cap on her head. She was re-rouged and smiling. She had 12 clubs in her bag. I had slimmed mine down to 16.
"What's your name, anyway?" I asked.