“The only thing that bothers me,” Honey contributed solemnly, “is whether or not they’re our social equals.”

Even Frank Merrill laughed.  “I mean, are they birds,” he went on still in a puzzled tone, “free creatures of the air, or, women, bound creatures of the earth?  And what should be our attitude toward them?  Have we the right to capture them as ornithological specimens, or is it our duty to respect their liberty as independent human beings?

“They’re neither birds nor women,” Pete Murphy burst out impetuously.  “They’re angels.  Our duty is to fall down and worship them.”

“They’re women,” said Billy Fairfax earnestly.  “Our duty is to cherish and protect them.”

“They’re girls,” Honey insisted jovially, “our duty is to josh and jolly them, to buy them taxicabs, theater-tickets, late suppers, candy, and flowers.”

“They’re females,” said Ralph Addington contemptuously.  “Our duty is to tame, subjugate, infatuate, and control them.”

Frank Merrill listened to each with the look on his face, half perplexity, half irritation, which always came when the conversation took a humorous turn.  “I am myself inclined to look upon them as an entirely new race of beings, requiring new laws,” he said thoughtfully.

Although the quick appearance and the quick departure of the girls had upset the men temporarily, they went back to work at once.  And as though inspired by their appearance, they worked like tigers.  As before, they talked constantly of them, piling mountains of conjecture on molehills of fact.  But now their talk was less of the wonder and the romance of the situation and more of the irritation of it.  Ralph Addington’s unease seemed to have infected them all.  Frank Merrill had actually to coax them to keep at their duty of patrolling the beach.  They were constantly studying the horizon for a glimpse of their strange visitors.  Every morning they said, “I hope they’ll come to-day”; every night, “Perhaps they’ll come to-morrow.”  And always, “They won’t put it over on us this time when we’re not looking.”

But in point of fact, the next visit of the flying girls came when they least expected it — late in the evening.

It had been damp and dull all day.  A high fog was gradually melting out of the air.  Back of it a misty moon, more mature now, gleamed like a flask of honey in a golden veil.  A few stars glimmered, placid, pale, and big.  Suddenly between fog and earth — and they seemed to emerge from the mist like dreams from sleep — appeared the five dazzling girl-figures.

The fog had blurred the vividness of their plumage.  The color no longer throbbed from wing-sockets to wing-tips; light no longer pulsated there.  But great scintillating beads of fog-dew outlined the long curves of the wings, accentuated the long curves of the body.  Hair, brows, lashes glittered as if threaded with diamonds.  Their cheeks and lips actually glowed, luscious as ripe fruit.