Petite Jeanne wanted to spring up and run away. No one had ever been here at this hour; yet something held her in her place.
There are times in all our lives when it seems that an invisible hand, resting upon our shoulder, bids us stay.
“You—why there were times when you flew,” the melodious voice went on. “Flew! That’s what you did.
“I flew once.” His voice took on a reminiscent air. “In an airplane, I mean. Often thought I’d try it again. But when you have a narrow escape once—” The voice trailed off. For a moment there was silence.
“You see,” he began once more, “a fellow asked me to go up. I said it might rain; I’d go if I could take my umbrella.
“He looked at my umbrella, and said: ‘You can’t take that.’
“Most men hate umbrellas. Rather get wet than carry one. Guess he was that way.
“Well, I said: ‘All right, I’ll go up.’ So we went up. And I took my umbrella; slipped it in, kind o’ hid it.
“But, by and by, when we were up a long way and the houses took to looking small, he saw that umbrella. Then he was hopping mad.
“He said: ‘You got to throw that out.’