And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need.

Golf is the Great Mystery. Like some capricous goddess, it bestows its favours with what would appear an almost fat-headed lack of method and discrimination. On every side we see big two-fisted he-men floundering round in three figures, stopping every few minutes to let through little shrimps with knock-knees and hollow cheeks, who are tearing up snappy seventy-fours.

The spine, and I do not attempt to conceal the fact, had become soluble, in the last degree.

Comedy is the kindly contemplation of the incongruous.

Confidence, of course is an admirable asset to a golfer, but it should be an unspoken confidence. It is perilous to put it into speech. The gods of golf lie in wait to chasten the presumptious.

I mean, if you're asking a fellow to come out of a room so that you can dismember him with a carving knife, it's absurd to tack a 'sir' on to every sentence. The two things don't go together.

-'What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?' There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter