The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

Success comes to a writer as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.

I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

To find a man's true character, play golf with him.

He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'