"You're not a nuisance. You're merely masculine," the girl retorted, jumping lightly but surely to the cockpit.
She turned and offered him a hand, eyes dancing with gay malice.
Whitaker delayed, considering her gravely.
"Meaning—?" he inquired pleasantly.
"Like all men you must turn to a woman in the end—however brave your strut."
"Oh, it's that way, is it? Thank you, but I fancy I can manage."
And with the aid of the clothes-prop he did manage to make the descent without her hand and without disaster.
"Pure blague!" the girl taunted.
"That's French for I-think-I'm-smart-don't-I—isn't it?" he inquired with an innocent stare. "If so, the answer is: I do."
Her lips and eyes were eloquent of laughter repressed.