“You’re a marvel!” he murmured. “I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t,” she warned.
“You’ll have to give your name and address here,” she said in a brusque tone. Then, “Here Charlie. This is the man.”
“Name and address, please,” said Charlie.
“Danby Force, Happy Vale, Connecticut,” said the young man promptly.
“Goodbye,” said Rosemary, “I’ll be seeing you.” And indeed she should—many times. The power behind all things, that directs the stars in their courses, that keeps all the little streams moving downhill and notes the sparrow’s fall, had willed that their paths should cross many times and in many curious places.
“There is time,” Rosemary told herself, “for a stroll in the open air before we take to the air.” Then, of a sudden, she recalled a curious sort of plane that had landed but a short time before. “Wonder if it’s still here.” She hurried out to the landing field.
“Yes, there it is! I must have a look.”
Speeding over the broad cement way, she crossed to a spot where a small plane rested. Truly it was a strange plane. It had been painted to represent a gigantic dragon fly. Its planes seemed thin and gauze-like. This, she knew, was pure illusion.
“But how beautiful!” she exclaimed.