The first time she had seen Dana Farrell and Toni Carver together the day the Tournament opened, she had known immediately that this dark, attractive youngster now held the place in Dana's affections that had once been hers. And she had not been in the least prepared for the surge of anguish that had engulfed her at the knowledge. She had hidden the pain under a cloak of scorn and ridicule, spreading gossip about the pair with a reckless disregard of discretion. But, strangely enough, her malicious remarks had neither amused nor interested her normally gossiploving friends. she had seen eyes shift and faces. color with embarrassment and contempt for her public exhibition of viciousness and bad taste, and this had served to deepen the pain and add fuel to the fire of her hatred.

More than once

Now, as she watched the slim, dark girl smile up at her tall companion, and saw the smile returned, the pain within her ballooned to an agony almost beyond bearing, and to her utter horror, Clare Emerson found herself very close to tears. Her relief was indescribable when the metallic voice of the starter boomed over the loudspeaker.

"Miss Farrell-tee off on one, please."

As soon as she hit her first ball, Dana knew that this was to be one of her rare off days. There would be no apparent reason for it. There would be nothing wrong with her stance or her grip or her swing; it was just one of those days when the fine edge was gone from her game. Well-hit drives would suddenly, inexplicably

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fade, perfectly played fairway shots would unerringly find sand traps and bunkers, putts would hang on the lip of the cup instead of dropping. Dana had known few such days in recent years, but without a doubt, this was to be one of them. No, she would not be shooting any 70s today.

She managed to par the first three holes (two of which she had birdied easily the day before) but she had to scramble to do it. On the fourth tee there was another short wait and she dried her wet face and hands on the towel and took the always ready lighted cigarette from her caddy.

Most caddies are partisan to the golfers for whom they are working, but this 16-year-old local boy, working his first important tournament, carried his partisanship almost to the point of adoration. He seldom spoke to Dana, but his earnest, freckled face mirrored his opinion of every stroke.

On the fourth tee his worry overcame his deference and he whispered to her, "Let's start shavin' par, it ain't so easy on the back nine. And this Emerson character is startin' out like a ball of fire."

Dana smiled and patted his shoulder, then glanced thoughtfully at Clare Emerson. Clare, her face drawn and rigid with tension, stood back of the tee, viciously swinging her driver in its grooved arc-back and forth, back and forth, the clubhead whistling.

She was indeed starting out like a ball of fire. Never particularly noted for her long game, she had, twice in the last three holes, outdriven Dana-and Dana

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