“No, but one you would not forget. One who dresses in bright clothes like a gypsy. Perhaps there was a gypsy woman with her.”
“Oh, you mean that gypsy pilot!” The attendant began to show a real interest. “Yes, she was here. She went away with Rosemary Sample and a couple of men.”
“Who—who’s Rosemary Sample?” Florence could scarcely speak for excitement. Jeanne! She had found her good pal Jeanne—that is, almost.
“Rosemary Sample is a stewardess,” the attendant explained.
“Wh—where did they go?”
“I don’t—yes, come to think of it, I heard Rosemary say they was goin’ to Little Sweden.”
“Little Sweden? Where’s that?”
“How should I know?” the man drawled. “You might ask in Norway. That’s close to Sweden, ain’t it?
“Yes!” His voice rose suddenly. “Coming!” He hurried away, leaving Florence hanging between the heights of heaven and the depths of despair.