In the car they fought the whole match over again.
"If only I hadn't given you the sixteenth this morning----"
"No, it was my fault. If I miss two-foot putts, you can't be expected----"
And thus during the whole journey superb concentration on an end to be won, superb oblivion to work and wealth and weariness.
"I thought you were staying upstairs all day," he began.
"Well, I never said anything about it. You don't seem very glad to see me."
"Of course I am. Only I meant that I would have come back earlier if I had known."
He sat beside her, but she did not welcome him. She was hurt.
"Day after day," she whispered. "I know you like to be out and about. I don't claim you always, do I? But sometimes, surely."
"I didn't know," he repeated remorsefully. "I didn't know."
"Yesterday you went and to-morrow you'll go."
"No, I won't. Freda, I'm a brute. I've been rotten to you. I've nothing to say for myself."
"You must go. I'm not going to keep you, if you don't stay of your own accord. The ball is much more amusing than I am."
He pleaded, he fought against her, but she insisted on his going.
The punishment was effective. He went in anguish and played with no zest for the game. He sliced, he topped, he missed short putts. The match fizzled out on the fourteenth green, a fiasco.
The Cartmells hurried back to London and Martin remained to make peace with Freda. He had been unspeakably pained by the sordidness and waste of energy and peace that quarrelling had entailed. He hated the suspicions and embarrassments that must linger on: he was passionately desirous of restoring the old intimacy and yet ... somehow or other the wound remained. He couldn't forget that evening on the ninth green. Why wouldn't Freda see the point of these things? Why wouldn't she walk? She was strong enough now for a mile or two. Almost he was angry with her for having been ill, for it is an odd feature of humanity that we sometimes dislike people for their sufferings, hate them for a cough or sniff. And now Martin was on the point of blaming Freda for the weakness he had once adored. Why wasn't she strong like Margaret or Viola? Why didn't she understand about the moor and wind-swept spaces and the miracle of hitting a golf-ball?