*    *    *    *    *

The George Mackintosh I had known had a pleasing gaze, but, though frank and agreeable,
it had never been more dynamic than a fried egg. This new George had an eye that was a
combination of a gimlet and a searchlight...Self-confidence - aye, and more than
self-confidence - a sort of sinful, overbearing swank seemed to exude from his very pores.

*    *    *    *    *

The feeling he gave me resembled the self-conscious panic which I used to experience
in my childhood when informed that there was One Awful Eye that watched
my every moment and saw my every act.

*    *    *    *    *

"I rather think I've killed George."
"Killed him, eh?"
It was a solution that had not occurred to me, but now that it was presented for my
inspection I could see its merits. In these days of national effort, when we are all working
together to try to make our beloved land fit for heroes to live in, it was astonishing
that nobody had before had thought of a simple, obvious thing like killing George Mackintosh.
George Mackintosh was undoubtedly better dead, but it had taken a woman's intuition to see it.

*    *    *    *    *

Yet the finest golfers are the least loquacious. It is related of the illustrious Sandy McHoots
that when, on the occasion of his winning the British Open Championship, he was interviewed
by reporters from the leading daily papers as to his views on Tariff Reform, Bimetallism,
the Trial by Jury System, and the Modern Craze for Dancing, all they could extract from him
was the single word "Mphm!" Having uttered which, he shouldered his bag and went home to tea.
A great man. I wish there were more like him.

*    *    *    *    *