So you didn't win?"
"No, I got beaten in the semi-finals."
"American amateurs are a very hot lot: the best ones. I suppose you
were weak on the greens, I warned you about that. You'll have to rub up
your putting before next year."
At the idea that any mundane pursuit as practising putting could appeal
to his broken spirit now, Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was as if
Dante had recommended some lost soul in the Inferno to occupy his mind
by knitting jumpers.
"Well, you seem to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly.
"It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, Miss
Milliken?"
"Extremely exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting her
spectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in her
heart.
A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glass
that morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomy
satisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And these
people seemed to imagine that he was in the highest spirits.
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