It was the first time that the men as a group had ever seen in the flying-girls an exhibition of this feminine faculty.  For a moment, they watched her, deeply interested, as though confronted by an unfamiliar phenomenon.  Then Billy wriggled.

“Say, stop her, somebody,” he begged, “I hate to hear a woman cry.”

“So do I,” said Peter, his face twisted into creases of discomfort.  “She’s your girl, Honey.  Stop her, for God’s sake.”

“How’s he going to stop her, I’d like to know?” demanded Ralph.  “We don’t converse very fluently yet, you know.”

“Well, I know how to stop her,” said Honey, leaping up.  “I say, Lulu,” he called.  “Stop that crying, that’s a good girl.  It makes us all sick.  I’ll find you another mirror in a moment.”

Lulu did not stop crying.  Perhaps she was not too primitive to realize that tears are the argument a woman negotiates best.  She wailed and wept assiduously.

Honey, in the meantime, flew to the trunks.  He dumped one after another; clothes flew from either energetic hand like gravel from a shovel.  Suddenly he gave a yell of triumph and brandished — .  It was cheap and brass-bound, but it reflected the sunlight as well as though it had been framed in massy gold.

“Here you are, Lulu!” he called.  He ran down the beach and held it up to her.  Lulu caught the reflection.  She dropped sheer.  In her eagerness, she took it from Honey’s very hand.  And as she seized it, a tear dropped on his upturned cheek.  And as the tear dropped, her face broke into smiles.

“Well,” exclaimed Ralph an instant later, “if I’d had any idea that they were angels and not females, this would settle the question for me.  Good Lord!  Well, you have got a temper, my lady.”

It was of Julia he spoke.

For, descending slowly and deliberately, Julia hovered an instant above a big rock.  Then, with a tremendous slashing impulse of a powerful arm, she hurled her mirror on it.  She flew in a very frenzy of haste into the west.

The girls returned the next morning early.

“After the graft,” Ralph commented cynically.

Honey had been rifling the trunks again.  He walked down to the beach with an armful of fans, piled them there, returned to camp.  The girls descended, eyed them, ascended, gathered together, talked, descended, ascended again.

“What’s the row?” Billy asked.

“They don’t know what they’re for,” said Pete.  He ran down on to the beach, seized a fan of feathers, opened it, and stood fanning himself.  Then he put it down and ran back.

He had hardly returned to the group of men when Chiquita swooped down and seized the fan that he had dropped.  The feathers were the exact scarlet of her wings.  She floated about, fanning herself slowly, her teeth flashing white in her dusky face.

“By jiminy, if she only had a mantilla, she’d be a Spanish angel,” Billy commented whimsically.