The Supreme Ordeal

A Story in Which the Hero Suffers a Torture Which only Golfers Can Understand

DOMINIC B. WYNDHAM LEWIS

LONDON. A showery afternoon in early spring. From a sky, fat died with blue, a sudden flurry of rain drives down Piccadilly, sending the just and the unjust alike scuttling for shelter.

Under the Ritz arcade a girl is standing. She is a charming creature in the early twenties, perfectly turned out from head to foot, exquisite in every way. She wears a severe tailor-made costume, with a fur round her shoulders. Her lips are slightly farted, and, in her violet eyes, is a faintly bored, faintly puzzled expression. "What now?" she seems to say to Life. "Anyhow, get on with it."

A young man, also waiting for the rain to stop, strolls leisurely down the arcade. He is a little above average height, slightly bronzed, athletic in figure, and carefully dressed. His expression is grave, but not severe.

He catches sight of the Girl over some halfdozen heads; and, as he studies her with the detached approval of a connoisseur she turns and sees him. Recognition dawns simultaneously. He lifts his hat and moves over to her.

THE MAN: DO let me get you a taxi.

THE GIRL: Thanks, but I'm only crossing the road.

(She looks at him with faintly raised eyebrows. It might seem at the moment that she has not the least idea who he is.)

THE MAN: I'm afraid you've forgotten me. We met in Venice last year.

THE GIRL: Oh, of course. I remember you perfectly. (She sttiiles adorably.)

THE MAN: I was with the Jacksons.

THE GIRL: Of course. You are Roland—

THE MAN: Rodney.

THE GIRL: Rodney Harbottle.

THE MAN: Hargreaves. Do you remember seeing me again at a dance in ParisT

THE GIRL: Oh, yes. We all dined at the Carlton.

THE MAN (sighing gently): Crillon.

THE GIRL: Isn't it a beastly day? I knew you at once. (She smiles faintly.)

THE MAN: Would it fix our meeting in Venice a little more strongly in your memory if I reminded you I asked you to marry me?

THE GIRL (opening her eyes): Was that you?

THE MAN: Yes.

THE GIRL: What did I say?

THE MAN: YOU said you couldn't. It was on a Thursday, just after midnight. I met you again in Paris on a Tuesday night, and you said you would.

THE GIRL (wrinkling her forehead): Of course. 1 remember you absolutely, Ronald.

THE MAN (sighing): Rodney.

THE GIRL (softly): Rodney.

THE MAN: The last time we met you were in my arms. I thought, perhaps, that the incident justified my speaking to you just now.

THE GIRL: Of course. It makes us old friends in a way, doesn't it?

They smile at each other. She is now beginning to remember him, atid it rather thrills her. His pulse is beginning to waken.

THE GIRL: It's quite extraordinary how things come back to one. I remember I was frightfully in love with you in Paris. Why didn't I marry you?

THE MAN: I had to get back to England for the first round of the Amateur Golf Championship. It began next day, you know. I was head over cars in love with you, too. I remember thinking of you between the eleventh and twelfth. (She looks up at the sky.) I say, it's stopped raining. Let's go and have a pot of tea at Rumpclmayer's.

THE GIRL (hesitating): I've promised to meet George in Bond Street in ten minutes.

THE MAN: George? Who's George?

THE GIRL: My husband. (A taxicab draws up.)

THE MAN (puttmg her in): Rumpelmayer's. (They are whirled away.)

At Rumpelmayer's. They are having tea. The temperature has gone up perceptibly.

THE MAN: The question is, what are we going to do about it?

THE GIRL: About what?

THE MAN: Here I am, head over heels in love with you, and you suddenly produce this George from nowhere. What on earth made you marry a man named George, anyway?

THE GIRL (sighing): It all seemed over in a minute.

THE MAN (brooding): George! I'll bet he waxes his moustache.

THE GIRL (hurt): No. He would never do that. He's too chivalrous.

THE MAN: I know exactly what happened. He took you off your guard. He came to you and asked you to marry him, and, while you were thinking of something else, he simply married you. Well, I say George is a cad to take advantage of a girl like that. I have the utmost contempt for George. He deserves all he gets.

(They look each other in the eyes for a moment. Hers are shining, and her delicate cheek is lightly flushed. His eyes are bright, too, and his heart is thumping.)

THE GIRL (with dowmeast eyes): Sugar?

THE MAN: NO, thanks.

(As she hatids him his cup their hands touch. She meets his eyes quite frankly. He reads in them—what ? )

THE GIRL (lightly): Awfully hot here.

THE MAN: Cynthia, look here. I love you.

I loved you before this cad George ever thought of loving you. But for the Golf Championship and a few club matches I couldn't very well miss, I'd have married you that week in Paris. As it was the thought of you didn't improve my play in the least. I was always thinking of you between rounds.

THE GIRL (softly): Were you?

THE MAN (in a low voice): But for you I'd have got into the semi-finals of the Amateur Championship.

THE GIRL: I didn't think you cared like— like that. (There is a silence. Neither looks at the other.)

THE MAN: Cynthia, let's go away. (She looks at him with parted lips, her breath coming a little more quickly.) You can't care for this fellow George, especially after the way he's treated you. Let's go away next week. We can go somewhere in the South where we can be happy, and where there is a decent links. Cannes, perhaps. As you now are, tied to this scoundrel George, you can never be happy. The more I think of this George—By the way, what's his other name? (She looks at him with imploring eyes, but does not speak.)

THE MAN: What's the creature's name?

THE GIRL (in a lozv voice): Robinson.

THE MAN: Rob — Gcor—(A new note creeps into his voice. A note of apprehension, almost of fear.) Not the Robinson? Not G. P. H. Robinson? (His voice is now hushed a?id reverential.) Not—My God!

THE GIRL: He asked me to marry him just after he won the Amateur Championship. What is the matter? (He is gazing at her, wideeyed.)

THE MAN (as in a dr earn): George Robinson. My God! (She rises quickly, and with a touch of hauteur.)

THE GIRL: Put me into a taxi, please. (He does so, still in a dream.)

THE GIRL (coldly): Good-bye.

THE MAN (pleadingly): Cynthia, may I see you tonight? I have something to say to you.

THE GIRL (hesitating): Very well. 19 Rutland Square.

(The taxi whirs away. He is left standing dazedly with his hat in his hand.)

Nine-thirty at night. The drawing room at 19 Rutland Square. (The Girl, in a shimmering frock, has recovered her poise. When the Ma?i arrives she is her old self again.)

THE MAN: Cynthia, I—I asked you to go away with me next week.

THE GIRL: Was it you? Yes, it was.

THE MAN: I think I was wrong. Forgive me. (He hesitates.) Do you love him, Cynthia?

THE GIRL: Not particularly.

THE MAN (shocked): Good God! You should have seen his drive at the tenth!

THE GIRL: I doubt if I shall ever be unfaithful or unkind to George.

THE MAN (reverently): I should hope not.

THE GIRL (bitterly): I know that I'll never get the chance.

THE MAN: What d'you mean?

THE GIRL: Every man who falls in love with me does exactly the same thing—wants me to fly with him and then hears who George is. He then calls, on the pretext of seeing me, but really in order to meet George. It somehow seems immoral to me.

Continued on page 80

Continued jrom page 41

THE MAN (tenderly): Cynthia, we can go next week. I only want his advice on one or two things. (Thoughtfully) Hang it all, it will be all to our good. George would hate to think his wife had run away with a man who constantly diced his irons. A double betrayal, I should call that. But I say, does George know,—know about all the men who fall in love with you, I mean?

THE GIRL: Yes.

(She gets up slowly and goes to the mantelpiece, leaning against it languidly and looking down at the fire of cedar logs.)

THE MAN: He doesn't object?

THE GIRL (bitterly): Why should he? It's always my luck to attract men with handicaps of 12 and over. As soon as they find out who my husband is they immediately cancel all our arrangements for flight to the Riviera, India, the South Seas. It awes them at once. They feel as if they were in church. An invisible mashie hangs between us like a sword. (She sighs.)

THE MAN: Cynthia!

THE GIRL (tonelessly): Yes?

(He is obviously undergoing a terrible struggle; his love for this radiant creature and his longing to improve his game of golf are warring together in his soul. If only she had married somebody else! If only he need not bother about his grip on his irons! He rises and paces up and down in silence, battling with his destiny.)

THE MAN (hoarsely): Cynthia!

(Her fragrant beauty is making his head swim. The door opens, and George enters. He is a bluff, tanned, breezy individual, entirely unspoilt by the dizzy honours which Providence has showered upon him at the comparatively early age of thirty-two.)

GEORGE: Hullo.

THE GIRL: Hullo.

(She is pale with anxiety. Her whole future defends on what will happen in the next five minutes. Will the man who has just declared himself — however un willingly—will her lover be strong, or will—? She draws in her breath.)

Oh, George, this is my friend Mr.— er-Hargreaves. (She glances quickly at the Man. He does not meet her eyes. They are fixed upon the carpet. He looks up quickly as she pronounces his name.)

THE MAN (in a strangled voice): How d'you do?

GEORGE (cheerily): How d'you do? (A silence.)

THE MAN: Jolly day it's been, hasn't it?

GEORGE: By Jove, yes. Whisky and soda?

THE MAN: Thanks.

(A silence. The Girl, lovelier atid paler than ever, moves into the shadow. George and the Man are standing in the pool of light made by a la?np in a Chinese jar. She waits, tense and anxious, for the next words.)

GEORGE: Cigar?

THE MAN: Thanks. (They light their cigars.)

GEORGE (sinking into a deep chair) : Ah-h ThaPs better. Cigarette, Cynthia?

THE GIRL (in a strained voice): No, thanks.

(The suspense is becoming painful. The Man is gazing at the ceiling.)

GEORGE (meditatively): A curious thing happened at Walton Heath today, in a match I was playing, at the tenth. Does golf talk bore you? Don't be polite, for God's sake.

(She holds her breath and gazes, wide-eyed, at the Man. He gives a start, looks up, meets her eye, looks away quickly, and then—)

THE MAN (in a trembling voice): Go on!