"I thought," flashed Diane pointedly, "I thought your mechanician was somewhere in a tree."
The aviator coughed and reddened uncomfortably.
"Doubtless he is," he said lamely. "He—he most always is. Do you know, he spends a large part of his spare time in trees—and swamps—and once, I believe, he was discovered in a chimney. I—I'd like to tell you more about him," he went on affably. "Once—"
"Thank you," said Diane politely, "but you've really entertained me more now than one could expect from a gentleman in your distressing plight. Come, Rex." She turned back again at the hemlocks which flanked the forest path. "I'll ask Miss Westfall to send some men," she added and halted.
For Diane had surprised a look of such keen regret in the young aviator's face that they both colored hotly.
"Beastly luck!" stammered the young man lamely. "I am disappointed. I—I don't seem to have another match."
"Your cigarette is burning splendidly," hinted Diane coolly, "and you've a match in your hand."
For a tense, magnetic instant the keen blue eyes flashed a curious message of pleading and apology, then the aviator fell to whistling softly, struck the match and finding no immediate function for it, dropped it in the water.
"I don't in the least mind floating about," he stammered, his eyes sparkling with silent laughter, "and possibly I'll make shore directly; but Lord love us! don't send the sharp-shooteress—please! Better abandon me to my fate."
Slim and straight as the silver birches by the water, Diane hurried away up the lake-path.