He shook his head, smiling. "You should go to Hendon or Brooklands. We don't run a flying school, you know."
"I don't want to go to Hendon or Brooklands, I want to go to you," retorted Dorothea flatly. "I want you to build me a machine like this one, and I want you to teach me to manage it. Will you?"
"I'm afraid that's out of the question."
"Why?"
If Denis had told the bare truth, he must have answered, Because I don't want to. As that was unsayable, he hedged.
"Well, for one thing, I've no plane you could learn on. You need a special school machine, with duplicate control for pilot and pupil—we've nothing of the sort."
"If that's all, I'll buy one."
"Buy a machine that'll be no earthly use to you six months hence?"
"Why not? Why shouldn't I throw my money away if I want to? It's good for trade, and it can't possibly matter to you!"
Denis looked as though it mattered a good deal. Geraldine, who had followed them from the house like a dog, seized this moment to make a scrambling leap on his shoulder. He steadied her with one hand mechanically as she walked to and fro, pushing now her nose and now her tail into his face, after the inconsiderate manner of a happy cat, but obviously she was too much a matter of course to interrupt his thoughts. All he said was: "I should wait till I was older, if I were you."