"After a second or so. I saw you recognized me. I couldn't place you, but I knew I knew you. Then Archie being there helped me to remember."
"I'm glad to meet again," I ventured. "I'd never forgotten you."
"One doesn't forget those childish things."
We regarded one another for a moment with a curiously easy and confident satisfaction in coming together again. I can't explain our ready zest in one another. The thing was so. We pleased each other, we had no doubt in our minds that we pleased each other. From the first we were at our ease with one another. "So picturesque, so very picturesque," came a voice from above, and then; "Bee-atrice!"
"I've a hundred things I want to know about you," she said with an easy intimacy, as we went up the winding steps. . . .
As the four of us sat at tea together under the cedar on the terrace, she asked questions about my aeronautics. My aunt helped with a word or so about my broken ribs. Lady Osprey evidently regarded flying as a most undesirable and improper topic—a blasphemous intrusion upon the angels. "It isn't flying," I explained. "We don't fly yet."
"You never will," she said compactly. "You never will."
"Well," I said, "we do what we can."
The little lady lifted a small gloved hand and indicated a height of about four feet from the ground. "Thus far," she said, "thus far—and no farther! No!"
She became emphatically pink. "No," she said again quite conclusively, and coughed shortly. "Thank you," she said to her ninth or tenth cake. Beatrice
