"Bully!" said Frank, leading her to a seat in the shaded garden. "My congratulations."
They ordered. On opposite sides of the little, round iron table, was it strange if they became a bit intimate? Little as Belinda had intended, she could not help warming toward one so enthusiastic over her proposed work.
"It's fine! It's splendid of you, Miss Melnotte!" he cried. "And an officer of the French army—no less!" He saluted, with laughter. "Why, the best I can look for at first is a non-com's stripes. I believe they make 'em corporals when they have passed first flying examinations."
"But you are a professional aviator already."
"In America. Not here. The Frenchies go at the game—especially in the army—in a different way." He told her swiftly of his hopes and aspirations. "I feel, too," he added, "that I need the practice. I'm going to enlist and enter one of the aviation schools if possible—and at once."
"I hope you will have every success, Mr. Sanderson," she said, suddenly recovering her usual poise and rising to give him her hand.
He held it a moment longer than necessary.
"Miss Melnotte," he cried hastily and under his breath, "my wishes for your safety and happiness are of the warmest. I cannot express myself as I should like to—I have no right to express myself—now. But if the time ever comes——"
The girl drew away her hand. The perplexed expression that came into her eyes—eyes the moment before so bright and tender in their glance—would have closed his lips had her words not done so.
"Mr. Sanderson," she said brusquely, "aren't you forgetting yourself? Good-by—and good luck."