Friday evenings set Arthur Wickham free from the Government office in which his weeks were spent. By nature he was made for an active life, but circumstances had headed him off his natural path and tethered him to London. His friends—and he had a good many—said that golf had spoilt him; that they never saw him nowadays; that it was a great pity to be utterly engrossed, body and soul, in one pursuit, and all sorts of things that friends say when