“Why don’t you make one, Steve?” asked Orissa impulsively. “If aviation is going to become general the man who builds the best aëroplane will make his fortune.”
Steve flushed and rose to tramp up and down the room before he answered. Then he stopped before his sister and said in low, intense accents:
“I long to make one, Orissa! The idea has taken possession of my thoughts until it has almost driven me crazy. I can make a machine that will fly better and be more safe and practical than either the Wright or Curtiss machines. But the thing is impossible. I—I haven’t the money.”
Orissa sat staring at the rug for a long time. Finally she asked:
“How much money would it take, Steve?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know. I’ve never figured it out. What’s the use?”
“There is use in everything,” declared his sister, calmly. “Get to work and figure. Find out how much you need, and then we’ll see if we can manage it.”
He gazed at her as if bewildered. Then he turned and left the room without a word.
A few evenings later he handed her an estimate.