"You will try to send help to Father?" said the girl.
"As soon as it's light. This is Sunday morning, by the way. You're all right, but I'm afraid I look far from Sundayish. Still, no one can see me, and I shall be off before the people go to church."
"So soon as that? Aren't you very tired?"
"Not so tired as I've been in the manoeuvres. We get a nap in turn, you know."
"How can you sleep when you're in such terrible danger?"
"Well, you see I'm used to it. We don't think of the danger. Perhaps it's because I've never had a bad accident. The want of a decent meal is the worst of it. We haven't had one since Thursday night, but I daresay we can keep going on light fare for another three or four days."
"You know I've often wanted to go up in an aeroplane, though I suspect I should have backed out if I had really had the chance. I'm very glad Father insisted on my coming, but I wish it had been daylight; I could only hold on and try not to be afraid."
"I'm sorry we can't take you with us—no, I don't quite mean that, Miss Bunce; of course you couldn't come careering about; what I mean is that I shall be very glad to take you a daylight trip one of these days if you care to come—when we get back home, of course. Captain Bunce was kind enough to give me an invitation; he said you would give me a cup of tea—"
"And sing to you! I know exactly what he said; but you mustn't pay too much attention to Father. He's a dear old man, but quite absurd over my little accomplishments."
"But I may have a cup of tea?"