Explore "The Rough Stuff" by P. G. Wodehouse on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Into the basking warmth of the day there had crept, with the approach of evening, that heartening crispness which heralds the advent of autumn. Already, in the valley by the ninth tee, some of the trees had begun to try on strange colours, in tentative experiment against the coming of nature's annual fancy dress ball, when the soberest tree casts off its workaday suit of green and plunges into a riot of reds and yellows. On the terrace in front of the clubhouse an occasional withered leaf fluttered down on the table where the Oldest Member sat, sipping a thoughtful seltzer and lemon and listening with courteous gravity to a young man in a sweater and golf breeches who occupied the neighbouring chair.
"She is a dear girl," said the young man a little moodily, "a dear girl in every respect. But somehow -- I don't know -- when I see her playing golf I can't help thinking that woman's place is in the home. "