The girl glanced furtively at him. It was the first time she had heard him speak in English.
"Bless your baby faces!" cried the good woman. "Come in out of the chilly morning; though what you be doing at this hour is beyond the likes o' me to fathomate" (a word which performed its function by being thoroughly understood).
She led them into the coffee-room, where he removed his coat and helmet, and threw them, together with the girl's flying-costume, over a chair. A sleepy-eyed and slovenly young woman-of-all-work appeared on the scene, and proceeded to build a wood fire in the grate; while the landlady, after the manner of her kind, bustled about, shifting chairs, colliding with the fire-making girl, removing glasses from the bar to the table, from the table to the shelf, and back again to the bar again, all the while talking incessantly, or making comfortable noises when words failed her (which was very seldom), and in short, giving that feeling of hospitable activity handed down from the good old days when passengers used to arrive by coach at "The Plough and Crown."
"Madam," said the flying-man, seizing a moment when a more than usually severe jolt against her assistant had deprived the good woman of breath, "I must telephone the aerodrome at Hounslow to send for my machine, so I shall stroll to the post-office down the road. In the meantime—this young lady speaks no English——"
"Bless her heart! What heathen country——"
"——speaks no English," he persisted, "and has traveled a long distance in the air——"
"Well, I've often said that——"
"——in the air," he repeated, stifling her philosophy in its birth, "and I shall be grateful if you will give her any attentions that your kind heart may suggest. She is cold, and I suppose she wants to make herself look pretty."
"Leave her to me, the sweet innocent. If she were my own daughter, me not having any, but——"
"When I return, may we have breakfast?"