Wonderful girl! Lucky chap he was! Rum,
the way they had come together! Talk about Fate, what?
He stooped to tickle James, who had finished stropping his claws
and was now enjoying a friction massage against his leg, and began
to brood on the inscrutable way of Fate.
Rum thing, Fate! Most extraordinary!
Suppose he had never gone down to Marvis Bay that time. He had
wavered between half a dozen places; it was pure chance that he
had chosen Marvis Bay. If he hadn't he would never have met old
Nutcombe. Probably old Nutcombe had wavered between half a dozen
places too. If they hadn't both happened to choose Marvis Bay they
would never have met. And if they hadn't been the only visitors
there they might never have got to know each other. And if old
Nutcombe hadn't happened to slice his approach shots he would
never have put him under an obligation. Queer old buster, old
Nutcombe, leaving a fellow he hardly knew from Adam a cool million
quid just because he cured him of slicing.
It was at this point in his meditations that it suddenly occurred to
Bill that he had not yet given a thought to what was immeasurably
the most important of any of the things that ought to be occupying
his mind just now. What was he to do about this Lord Dawlish
business?
Life at Brookport had so accustomed him to being plain Bill
Chalmers that it had absolutely slipped his mind that he was
really Lord Dawlish, the one man in the world whom Elizabeth
looked on as an enemy.
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