“Which way is the aëroplane, Daddy?” she asked, speaking not flippantly, but in low, quiet tones.
“I’ll lead the way; you girls may follow,” he said.
As they went up the path Orissa, anxious to be sociable and to put the stranger at her ease, said brightly:
“Don’t you think the ride out here is beautiful?”
“Yes,” responded Sybil.
“The orange groves are so attractive, just now,” continued Orissa.
There was no response.
“I hope you enjoyed it, so you will be tempted to come again,” resumed the little hostess.
Miss Cumberford said nothing. Her father, a step in advance, remarked over his shoulder: “My daughter seldom wastes words. If you wish her to speak you must address to her a direct question; then she will answer it or not, as she pleases. It’s her way, and you’ll have to overlook it.”
Orissa flushed and glanced sidewise to get a peep at Sybil’s face, that she might note how the girl received this personal criticism. But the features were as unemotional as wax and the dark, mysterious eyes were directed toward the hangar, the roof of which now showed plainly. It was hard to continue a conversation under such adverse conditions and Orissa did not try. In silence they traversed the short distance to the shed, where Steve met them, a little abashed at receiving a young lady in his workshop.