“You will,” Ralph sneered.  “You will, will you?  All right.  Let’s see you do it!” Suddenly he started swiftly down toward the trail.  Come, boys!” he commanded.  Honey followed — and Billy and Pete.

But, suddenly, Julia spoke.  She spoke in the loud, clear tones of her flying days and she used the language of her girlhood.  It was a word of command.  And as it fell from her lips, the five women leaped from the top of the knoll.  But they did not fall into the lake.  They did not touch its surface.  They flew.  Flew — and yet it was not flight.  It was half-flight.  It was scarcely flight at all.  Compared with the magnificent, calm, effortless sweep of their girlhood days, it was almost a grotesque performance.  Their wing-stumps beat back and forth violently, beat in a very agony of effort.  Indeed these stunted fans could never have held them up.  They supplemented their efforts by a curious rotary movement of the legs and feet.  They could not rise very far above the surface of the water, especially as each woman was weighted by a child; but they sustained a steady, level flight to the other side of the lake.

The men stared for an instant, petrified.  Then panic broke.  “Come back, Lulu!” Honey yelled.  “Come back!” “Julia!” Billy called hoarsely, “Julia!  Julia!  Julia!” He went on calling her name as if his senses had left him.  Pete’s lips moved.  Words came, but no voice; he stood like a statue, whispering.  Merrill remained silent; obviously he could not even whisper; his was the silence of paralysis.  Addington, on the other hand, was all voice.  “Oh, my God!” he cried.  “Don’t leave me, Peachy!  Don’t leave me!  Peachy!  Angela!  Peachy!  Angela!” His voice ascended on the scale of hysteric entreaty until he screeched.  “Don’t leave me!  Don’t leave me!” He fell to his knees and held out his arms; the tears poured down his face.

The women heard, turned, flew back.  Holding themselves above the men’s heads, they fluttered and floated.  Their faces were working and the tears flowed freely, but they kept their eyes steadily fixed on Julia, waiting for command.

Julia was ghastly.  “Shall Angela fly?” she asked.  And it was as though her voice came from an enormous distance, so thin and expressionless and far-away had it become.

“Anything!” Addington said.  “Anything!  Oh, my God, don’t leave us!”

Julia said something.  Again this word was in their own language and again it was a word of command.  But emotion had come into her voice — joy; it thrilled through the air like a magic fluid.  The women sank slowly to earth.  In another instant the two forces were in each other’s arms.

“Billy,” Julia said, as hand in hand they struck into one of the paths that led to the jungle, “will you marry me?”

Billy did not answer.  He only looked at her.

“When?” he said finally.  “To-morrow?”

“To-day,” Julia said.

Sunset on Angel Island.