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 on that superb
figure of young womanhood as she swung gracefully out toward the
gallant machine that awaited her in the sunlight, chatting gayly with
her companion as she walked. She wore a thick-knitted jersey of brown
silk, a simple brown skirt, and leather gaiters, and a brown leather
automobile cap covered her shining, dark hair. Like a slim, brown
statue she stood at last on the step of her biplane in the breeze, and
I saw the Comte de Chalons bend over her hand as he assisted her into
the nacelle.

Well, he had reason, that one! She is a better flier than I can ever
make out of him.

A run of fifty yards, and she was aloft with the practiced leap of the
expert pilot. The next minute she was breasting the breeze far above
our heads, the rear edges of the huge planes quivering transparent
against the sky, her motor roaring impetuously. As she passed, I had a
single glimpse of her face--bathed in full sunlight,