y stifled a small pink yawn and smiled ingratiatingly.

"Perhaps you were asleep too," she suggested humbly. "I don't
believe that airplanes ever fly this way any more. Or it might have
been that fat Hodges boy on his motorcycle--he does make the most
dreadful racket. Oh, Janet, what a perfectly _ripping_ night--do see!"

They leaned together on the window-sill, silenced by the white and
shining beauty that had turned the pleasant garden into a place of
magic and enchantment. The corners of Janet's mouth lifted suddenly.
How absurd people were! The fat Hodges boy and his motorcycle! Did
they all regard her as an amiable lunatic--even little, lovely,
friendly Rosemary, wavering sleepily at her side? It really was
maddening. But she felt, amazingly enough, suddenly quiet and joyous
and indifferent--and passionately glad that the wanderer from the
skies had won safely through and was speeding home. Home! Oh, it was
a crying pity that it need ever land--anything so fleet and strong
and sure should fly forever! But if they must rest, those beating
wings--the old R.F.C. toast went singing through her head and she
flung it out into the moonlight, smiling--"Happy landings! Happy
landings, you!"

The next day was the one that brought to White Orchards what was to
be known for many moons as "the Big Storm." It had been gathering
all afternoon, and by evening the heat had grown appalling and
incredible, even to Janet's American and exigent standards. The
smouldering copper sky looked as though it had caught fire from the
world and would burn forever; there was not so much as a whisper of
air to break the stillness--it seemed as though the whole tortured
earth were holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Every one had struggled through the day assuring one another that
when evening came it would be all right--dangling the alluring
thought of the cool darkness before each other's hot and weary eyes;
but the night proved even more outrageous than the day. To the
little group seated on the terrace, dispiritedly playing with their
coffee, it seemed almost a personal affront. The darkness closed in
on them, smothering, heavy, intolerable; they could feel its weight,
as though it were some hateful and tangible thing.

"Like--like black cotton wool," explained Rosemary, stirred to
unwonted resentment. She had spent the day curled up in the largest
Indian chair on the terrace, round-eyed with fatigue and incredulity.