"Pooh! I'm as old as that boy who was killed at Eastchurch last week, and he'd had his ticket for two years."
"Quite possibly, but then you see he is dead."
"Ah, you say that because you think I'm reckless, but that's only with money. I shouldn't be reckless flying, I should love my plane far too much." She rubbed her cheek softly against the varnished fabric of the wing.
"That remains to be seen," said Denis, smiling.
"No, it doesn't. I am careful. I've driven my car about town for two years now, and never had a summons or an accident."
Denis looked at her with more respect, but he continued to shake his head. "Go to Hendon and get your ticket, and then come back to me, and I'll build you a machine with pleasure."
"I won't. I'll learn of you, or not at all."
"Then I'm afraid it will have to be not at all."
"Oh, you are hateful," said Dorothea succinctly. She turned her back on him and marched towards the door. Half-way there she thought better of it, and came back to lay her clasped hands on his arm, frankly imploring. "Oh, do teach me!" she besought. "Do. Do. You don't know how much I want it! Why won't you? Is it because I'm not a man?"
Denis was driven a step nearer the truth. "I've really not the time. I'm a designer, not an instructor; it would not be fair to my partner to undertake outside work."