The Boy with Wings
with a little jump on the slanting front seat, exclaimed, "I know--!"
Just as Paul said, "By Jove! I've got it! I know who that fellow was.
That German fellow just now. He was one of the waiters at that very
dance, Gwenna!"
Gwenna, turning, said breathlessly, "Yes, I know. The one who passed us
on the path. But I've thought of something else, too. I thought then his
face reminded me of somebody's; I know now who it is. It's that fair
young man who came down to try and be taken on at the Works."
"At Westminster?" Paul asked quickly.
"No; at the Aircraft Works one afternoon. He talked English awfully
well, and he said he was Swiss. And then Andre--you know, the big, dark
French workman--talked to him for quite a long time in French; he said
he seemed very intelligent. But he wouldn't give him a job, whatever."
"He wouldn't?"
"No. I heard him tell the Aeroplane Lady that the young man ('_ce
garcon-la_') came from the wrong canton," said Gwenna. "So he went away.
I saw him go out. He was awfully _like_ that German waiter. I suppose
most Germans look alike, to us."
"S'pose so," said the Aviator, adding, "Was that the day that drawing of
mine was missing from the Aircraft Works, I wonder?"
She looked at him, surprised. "I didn't know one of your drawings was
missing, Paul."
"Yes. It didn't matter, as it happened. Drawing of a detail for my
Machine. I've taken jolly good care not to have complete drawings of it
anywhere," he said, with a little nod.
And some minutes later they had begun to talk of something else again,
as the bus lurched on through the hot, deserted Sunday streets.
* * * * *
The morning that had brought Gwenna to her lover left Gwenna's chum for
once at a loose end.
"Leslie, my child, aren't you a little tired of being the looker-on who
sees most of the game? Won't you take a hand?" Miss Long asked herself
as she went back into her Club bedroom. It was scented with the fresh
smell of the rosemary and bay-rum that Leslie used for her ink-black
sheaf of hair, and there drifted in through the open window the sound of
bells from all the churches.
"Sunday. My free morning! '_The better the day._' So I'll settle up at
last what I am going to do about this little matter of my future," she
decided.
She sat down at the little bamboo writing-table set against the bedroom
wall. Above it there hung (since this was a girl's room!) a
looking-glass; and about the looking-glass there was festooned a little
garland made up of dance-programmes, dangling by their pencils, of gaudy
paper-fans from restaurants, and of strung beads. Stuck crookedly into a
corner of the glass there was a cockling snapshot. It showed Monty
Scott's dark head above his sculptor's blouse. Leslie picked it out and
looked at it.
"Handsome, wicked eyes," she said to it lightly. "The only wicked things
about you, you unsophisticated infant-in-arms!" Then she said, "You and
your sculpturing!... _Just_ like a baby with its box of bricks. Besides,
I don't suppose you'll ever have a penny. One doesn't marry a man
because one may like the _look_ of him. No, boy."
She flicked the snapshot aside. There was conscientious carelessness in
the flick.
Then she took out the leather-cased ink-bottle from her dressing-bag,
and some paper.
She wrote: "MY DEAR HUGO----"
Then she stopped and thought--"Maudie and Hilary Smith will be pleased
with me. So will the cousins, the opulent cousins who've always been
kind about clothes they've finished wearing, and invitations to parties
where they want another girl to brighten things up. You can give some
bright parties for _them_ now, Leslie! Good Reason Number Ninety-nine
for saying 'Yes.'"
She took up her pen.
"Nothing," she murmured, "_Nothing_ will ever kill the idea that _the
girl who isn't married is the girl who hasn't been asked_. Nothing will
ever spoil the satisfaction of that girl when showing that she _has_!"
She wrote down the date, which she had forgotten.
"Poor Monty would be so much more decorative for 'show' purposes. But I
explained quite frankly to Hugo that it would be his money I'd want!"
She wrote, "_After thinking it well over_----"
Then again she meditated.
"Great things, reasons! The reason why so many marriages aren't a
success is because they haven't _enough_ 'reasons why' behind them. Now,
how far had I got with mine--ah, yes. Reason Number a Hundred: I'm
twenty-six; I shall never been any better-looking than I am now. Not
unless I'm better-dressed. Which (Reason a Hundred and One) I should be
if I married Hugo. Reason a Hundred and Two: my old lady won't live for
ever, and I should never get a better job than hers. Except his. Reason
Number a Hundred and Two and a Half: I do quite like him. He doesn't
expect anything more, so there's the other half-reason for taking him.
Reason a Hundred and Four: _he's_ never disapproved of me. Whereas Monty
always likes me against his better judgment. Much nicer for me, but
annoying for a husband. I should make Hugo an excellent wife." She added
this half-aloud (to the snapshot).
"I should never shock _him_. Never bore him. Never interfere with him.
Never make him look silly--any sillier than he can't help looking with
that hair and that necktie he will wear. Leslie would have the sense,
when she wasn't amusing him at the moment, to retire to her _own rooms_
(Reason a Hundred and Five for marrying well), and to stay there until
she was fetched. Reason a----"
Here, in the full flow of her reasoning, Miss Long cast suddenly and
rather violently down her pen, and tore the sheet with Hugo's name in it
into tiny strips that she cast into the empty fireplace.
"I can't _think_ to write a good letter to-day!" she excused herself to
herself as she got up from her chair. "I'm tired.... It was all that
talking from Taffy last night. Bother the child. _Bother_ her. _It's
unsettling!_--Bother _all_ engaged girls. (_And all the people shall say
Amen._) I wonder where they went to?... I shall ring up somebody to take
me on the river, I think. Plenty of time to say 'Yes' to Hugo later."
The letter to Hugo, between the lines of which there had come the vision
of an engaged girl's happy face, remained, for the present, unfinished.
Leslie went to the telephone.
"O-o-o Chelsea," she called. "I want to speak to Mr. Scott, please."
She thought, "This shall be my last free Sunday, and I'll have it in
peace!"
* * * * *
In Richmond Park the grass was doubly cool and green beneath the shade
both of the oaks and of the breast-high bracken where Gwenna and Paul
Dampier sat, eating the fruit and cake that they had bought on the way,
and talking with long stretches of contented silence.
They were near enough actually to London and the multitude. But town and
people seemed far away, out of their world to-day.
Gwenna's soft, oddly-accented voice said presently into the warm
stillness, "You'll take me up this afternoon?"
"Up?" he said idly. "Where to?"
"Up flying, of course."
"No, I don't think so," said the young Airman quietly, putting his chin
in his hand as he lay in his favourite attitude, chest downwards in the
grass, looking at her.
"Not flying? Not this afternoon?"
"Don't think so, Little Thing."
"Oh, you're lazy," she teased him, touching a finger to his fair head
and taking it quickly back again. "You don't want to move."
"Not going to move, either; not until I've got to."
She sighed, not too disappointed.
Here in the dappled shade and the solitude with him it was heavenly
enough; even if she did glance upward at the peeps of sapphire-blue
through the leaves and wonder what added rapture it would be to soar to
those heights with her lover.
"D'you know how many times you've put me off?" she said presently,
fanning the midges away from herself with her broad white hat. "Always
you've said you'd take me flying with you, Paul. And always there's been
something to stop it. Let's settle it now. Now, when will you?"
"Ah," he said, and flung the stone of the peach he'd been eating into
the dark green jungle of bracken ahead of them. "Good shot. I wanted to
see if I could get that knob on that branch."
She moved nearer to him and said coaxingly, "What about next Sunday?"
"Hope it'll be as fine as this," he said, smiling at her. "I'd like all
the Sundays to be just like this one. Can't think what I did with all
the ripping days before this, Gwenna."
She said, "I meant, what about your taking me up next Sunday?"
"Nothing about it," he said, shaking his head. There was a little pause.
He crossed his long legs in the grass and said, "Not next Sunday. Nor
the Sunday after that. Nor any Sunday. Nor any time. I may as well tell
you now. You aren't ever coming flying," said the young aviator firmly
to his sweetheart. "I've settled _that_."
The cherub face of the girl looked blankly into his. "But, Paul! No
flying? Why? Surely--It's safe enough now!"
"Safe enough for me--and for most people."
"But you've taken Miss Conyers and plenty of girls flying."
"Girls. Yes."
"And you _promised_ to take me!"
"That was ages ago. That was when you were a girl too."
"Well, what am I now, pray?"
"Don't you know? Not '_a_ girl.' _My_ Girl!" he said.
Then he moved. He knelt up beside her. He made love to her sweetly
enough to cause her to forget all else for a time. And presently,
flushed and shy and enraptured, she brought out of her vanity-bag the
tiny white wing that was to be his mascot, and she safety-pinned it
inside the breast of his old grey jacket.
"That ought to be fastened somewhere to the P.D.Q.," he suggested. But
she shook her head. No. It was not for the P.D.Q. It was for him to
wear.
Then she saw him weighing in his hand her own mascot, the little
mother-of-pearl heart with the silver chain.
"Ah! You did remember to bring it, at last?" she said.
Nestling against his arm, she lifted her chin and waited for him to snap
the trinket about her neck.
He laughed and hesitated. She looked at him rather wonderingly. Then he
made a confession.
"D'you know, I--I do hate to have to give it back again, Gwenna. I've
had it _so_ long. Might as well let me hold on to it. May I?"
"Oh, you are greedy for keepsakes," she said, delighted. "What would you
_do_ with a thing like that?"
"I've thought of something," said he, nodding at her.
She asked, "What?"
"Tell you another time," he smiled, with the locket clutched in the hand
that was about her waist. She flung back her head happily against his
shoulder, curling herself up like a kitten in his hold. They had settled
that they were going to walk on to Kew Gardens to tea, but it was not
time yet, and it was so peaceful here. Scarcely any one passed them in
that nook of the Park. Another happy silence fell upon the lovers. It
was long before the boy broke it, asking softly, "You do like being with
me, don't you?" There was no answer from the girl.
"Do you, Gwenna?" It seemed still odd to be able to call her whatever he
liked, now! "Do you, my Little Sweet Thing?"
Still she didn't answer. He bent closer to look at her.... Her long
eyelashes lay like two little dark half-moons upon her cheeks and her
white blouse fell and rose softly to her breathing. Drowsy from the late
hours she'd kept last night and from the sun-warmed silence under the
trees, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Her eyes were still shut when
at last she heard his deep and gentle voice again in her ear, "I suppose
you know you owe me several pairs of gloves, miss!"
She laughed sleepily, returning (still a little shyly and unfamiliarly!)
the next kiss that he put on her parted lips.
"I was _nearly_ asleep," she said, with a little sudden stretch that ran