been a
round-shouldered little person in a placket, we should have taken it
differently. We always called you 'The Goddess,' because of your
splendid walk. Did you know?"

"No, Boy, I did not know; but I confess to feeling immensely flattered.
Only, take a friend's advice, and avoid conversational allusions to
plackets, because you are obviously ignorant of the meaning of the
word. And now, tell me? Having successfully escaped so serious a
drawback to future greatness as becoming Senior Wrangler, on what
definite enterprise have you embarked?"

"Flying," said the Boy, sitting forward in his chair. "I am going to
break every record. I am going to fly higher, farther, faster, than
any man has ever flown before. This week, if I had not stayed on
here--you know originally I came up only for the 'May week'--I was to
have done a Channel flight. Ah, you don't know what it means, to own
three flying-machines, all of different make, and each the best of its
kind! You feel you own the world! And then to climb into your seat
and go whirling away, with the wonderful hum in your ears, mastering
the air--the hitherto invincible air. May I tell you what I am going
to do for my next fly? Start from the high ground between Dover and
Folkestone; fly over the Channel; circle round Boulogne Cathedral--you
remember the high dome, rising out of the old town surrounded by the
ramparts? Then back across the Channel, and to ground again at
Folkestone; all in one flight; and I hope to do it in record time, if
winds are right."

"And if winds are wrong, Boy? If you rush out and take the horrid
risks of the cross-currents you told us about? If something happens to
your propeller, and you fall headlong into the sea?"

"Oh, it's all U P then," said the Boy, lightly. "But one never expects
that sort of thing to happen; and when it does, all is over so quickly
that there is no time for anticipation. Beside, there must be
pioneers. Every good life given, advances the cause."

Christobel Charteris looked at him. His was not the terrible,
unmistakable, relentless face of the bird-man. He was brilliant with
enthusiasm, but it was the enthusiasm of the sportsman, keen to excel;
of Young England, dauntless, fearless, eager to break records. The
spirit of the true bird-man had not, as yet, entered into her Little
Boy Blue.

She pressed her hand upon her bosom. It ached still.

"Boy dear," she said, softly. "Has it ever struck