“Beryl is a real brick.”
“You say that because we are pals.”
“No, Ronnie. I say it because it’s the rock-bottom truth; because Miss Gaselee, thanks to your tuition, is one of the very few women who have come to the front as aviators in the war. She knows how to fly as well as any Squadron Commander. Look at her now! Just look at the spiral she’s making. Neither of us could do it better. Her engine, too, is running like a clock.”
And, as the two aviators watched, the great battleplane swept round and round the aerodrome, quickly dropping from twelve thousand feet—the height at which they had first noticed its approach—towards the wide expanse of grass that was the landing-place.
At last “The Hornet,” humming loudly like a huge bumblebee, touched earth and came to a standstill, while Ronnie ran forward to help his well-beloved out of the pilot’s seat.
“Hullo, Ronnie!” cried the fresh-faced, athletic girl merrily. “I didn’t expect to find you here! I thought you’d gone to Harbury, and I intended to fly over and find you there.”
“I ran out here with George to see that new engine running on the bench,” he explained. “Come and have some tea. You must want some.”
The girl, in her workmanlike air-woman’s windproof overalls, her “grummet”—which in aerodrome-parlance means headgear—her big goggles and thick gauntlet-gloves, rose from her seat, whilst her lover took her tenderly in his arms and lifted her out upon the ground.
Then, after a glance at the altimeter, he remarked:
“By Jove, Beryl! You’ve been flying pretty high—thirteen thousand four hundred feet.”