Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beginners Projects, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
1911
Miss Katherine Wayneworth Jones was bunkered. Having been bunkered manytimes in the past, and knowing that she would be bunkered upon manyoccasions in the future, Miss Jones was not disposed to take a tragicview of the situation. The little white ball was all too secure downthere in the sand; as she had played her first nine, and at least paidher respects to the game, she could now scale the hazard and curl herselfinto a comfortable position. It was a seductively lazy spring day, thevery day for making arm-chairs of one's hazards. And let it be set downin the beginning that Miss Jones was more given to a comfortable placethan to a tragic view.
Katherine Wayneworth Jones, affectionately known to many friends in manylands as Katie Jones, was an "army girl." And that not only for theobvious reasons: not because her people had been of the army, even untothe second and third generations, not because she had known the joys andjealousies of many posts, not even because bachelor officers werecommitted to the habit of proposing to her—those were but the trappings.She was an army girl because "Well, when you know her, you don't have tobe told, and if you don't know her you can't be," a floundering friendhad once concluded her exposition of why Katie was so "army." For her tomarry outside the army would be regarded as little short of treason.
To-day she was giving a little undisturbing consideration to that thingof her marrying. For it was her twenty-fifth birthday, and twenty-fifthbirthdays are prone to knock at the door of matrimonial possibilities.Just then the knock seemed answered by Captain Prescott. UnblushinglyMiss Jones considered that doubtless before the summer was over she wouldbe engaged to him. And quite likely she would follow up the engagementwith a wedding. It seemed time for her to be following up some of herengagements.
She did not believe that she would at all mind marrying Harry Prescott.All his people liked all hers, which would facilitate things at thewedding; she would not be rudely plunged into a new set of friends, whichwould be trying at her time of life. Everything about him was quite allright: he played a good game of golf, not a maddening one of bridge,danced and rode in a sort of joy of living fashion. And she liked the wayhe showed his teeth when he laughed. She always thought when he laughedmost unreservedly that he was going to show more of them; but he neverdid; it interested her.
And it interested her the way people said: "Prescott? Oh yes—he was inCuba, wasn't he?" and then smiled a little, perhaps shrugged a trifle,and added:
"Great fellow—Prescott. Never made a mess of things, anyhow."
To have vague association with the mysterious things of life, and yet notto have "made a mess of things"—what more could one ask?
Of course, pounding irritably with her club, the only reason for notmarrying him was that there were too many reasons for doing so. She couldnot think of a single person who would furnish the stimulus of anobjection. Stupid to have every one so pleased! But there must always besomething wrong, so let that be appeased in having everything just right.And then there was Cuba for one's adventurous sense.
She looked about her with satisfaction