“It seems to me, tout de meme,” I remarked, “that this young monsieur knows very well what he is about.  We have not been asked to repair a single stick of his machine.”

“True,” replied Georges.  “But that is not his ambition, to break wood.  It was his neck that he wished to break, and incidentally my own.  Wait, my friend, until you have seen him fly.  I, who speak to you, have faced death daily these weeks past, and my clothes hang loose upon me!”

And I was fated to see this monsieur, also, before very long, on the occasion of his dramatic appearance upon the grounds of my flying school.  I must explain that Mineola had become a social institution, for already I taught the younger members of the rich sportsman set the new diversion that science had placed within their reach.  Crowds assembled each fine day to witness the first flutterings or the finished flights of their friends.

On this occasion the lawn before the hangars was bright with flowers and gay with the costumes of pretty women, in deference to whom I had even permitted what the society reporters began to call “aviation teas,” placing little tables about the grass, where the chatter was not too much interrupted by the vicious rattle and the driving smoke of motors under test.  I did this the more readily as it prevented the uninstructed from wandering into the path of the machines, which buzzed about the grounds like crippled beetles trying to rise into the air.

The grounds, particularly in expectation of a flight by Miss Warren, bore very much in consequence the appearance of a garden party, and I looked with pride upon a scene such as only the historic flying schools of my dear France had hitherto witnessed.

It was with a start that I recognized, while gazing upon this throng of flower-like women and gallant young men, the figure so tall, so commanding of the aged Monsieur Warren himself.  I knew that he did not belong to this plutocratic young sporting set, of which he even disapproved.  Moreover, the old financier had never before condescended to recognize the prowess of his daughter as an aviator.  Indeed, I understood that the least reference to it had been forbidden in his presence.  I hastened forward to welcome him, with joy in this new and powerful convert to the science of flight, and together we watched the preparation of Miss Warren’s great French biplane, her beautiful Cygne, which she had insisted upon bringing with her from Paris.

Ah, mon vieux, I cannot describe to you the emotion that seized me as she advanced from the hangars, this beautiful girl, to mount her great white bird!  The Comte de Chalons, who had followed her from Europe, and rarely left her side, hurried after her with her leather flying gauntlets—­for while it was warm on the ground, there came from aloft reports of a chilling wind.  I saw the tall, bent old man, her father, gaze with eyes moist with pride and affection