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 lantry. The blue of his eyes always was dark under his black brows; but his eyes flashed when he was intent. He was very intent now. Pete, on that day, was not yet twenty-three.

The girl, I thought, was twenty. She brought up her plane with the water lapping at the pontoons; she pushed off her helmet, baring brown, glorious hair. Probably there in the sun and on the sea surface, she felt the hood unbearably hot; not impossibly, as she came close, she had an impulse to be at her best before Pete; and I realized that this might be irrespective of a fact as to whether or not, ten minutes ago, she deliberately had knocked him out of the sky.

"Is anyone hurt?" she inquired, addressing Pete and glancing away, for a second, at the wreck of his plane which flecked the smooth swells in the distance.

I left reply to Pete and he needed a moment to compose it. At last he said, curtly, "Nobody is hurt here this morning. Nobody was hurt here yesterday or Monday. They were killed."

He cast this at her with a fling which flicked