In the meantime the little stewardess, Rosemary Sample, had made her way back to Chicago. During the time Danby Force was having his fortune told she was thinking at intervals of him. She was in her own small room and, as one will, whose mind is not actively engaged in performing a task, she was thinking of many things. Rosemary was, by nature, romantic. Contrary to general opinion, there are few romances between pilots of the air and their lady companions. Pilots, as a rule, are married men with homes they love all the more dearly because of enforced absence from them. Rosemary had been obliged to find romance, if any, from contact with her passengers. And there had been romances of a sort, though none of serious import. She smiled now as she thought of the great banker who more than once had favored her with a smile; of the movie actor, little more than a boy, who had traveled on her ship, once every week for four months. “Such a nice boy,” she whispered. “He—”
Her thoughts broke off. She listened intently. Over her head was clamped a head-set for receiving messages. Her radio was in tune with the sending sets of all her company’s great fleet of airplanes. What message did she expect to receive? Often none in particular. She loved the general chatter of the air. “Plane Number 9 taking off from Chicago to New York.” “Plane Number 34 due in Cheyenne at 9:15, twenty minutes late.” “Plane Number 11 grounded by a storm near Troy, New York.” All this was music to her ears, for was she not part of it all, the great air-transportation system, not of tomorrow, but of today?
Tonight, however, she half expected a personal message. To each of six friends, all stewardesses of the air, she had told what she knew of the dark lady. To each she had said, “If she boards your ship, give my call number and let me know. I’ll be listening till time for sleep.”
The message that for the instant held her attention proved disappointing. It was not for her. So she went on with her dreaming. And in those dreams there frequently appeared two faces—a serious one, Danby Force, and a smiling one, Willie VanGeldt.
“How different they are!” she thought to herself. “And yet, if I am not mistaken each has been, or will be, heir to a large fortune. It seems that even rich people have their own way of living.”
These thoughts did not long hold her fancy. Soon she was dreaming of trips she would make in the future. No, not trips from Chicago to New York, then New York to Chicago. Nothing like that, but long trips into strange places. She’d collect a pocketful of passes and go wandering. She’d catch a ship across the Canadian prairies to Edmonton, take the north going plane and land at last at the mouth of the Mackenzie River on the shore of the Arctic. There she’d play with brown Eskimo babies and tame seals. She would drive dog teams and reindeer, ride in skin-boats and perhaps—just perhaps—hunt polar bear.
When she tired of all this, she’d go flying south through the air, south to Cuba, Panama, Rio and the slow-moving Amazon. Ah yes, this airplane business was quite wonderful, if only you knew how to make the most of it. And she knew. Ah yes, she, Rosemary Sample, knew.
But first there were other matters to be considered. Willie VanGeldt and his badly cared for little flivver of the air; Danby Force and his dark lady. And—and—
Well, what of the rest? Rosemary had fallen asleep.
She awoke a half hour later and remained so just long enough to remove the head-set, shut off her radio, slip out of her day clothes and into her dream robes. Then again she fell fast asleep.