Crowds
assembled each fine day to witness the first flutterings or the
finished flights of their friends.
On this occasion the lawn before the hangars was bright with flowers
and gay with the costumes of pretty women, in deference to whom I had
even permitted what the society reporters began to call "aviation
teas," placing little tables about the grass, where the chatter was
not too much interrupted by the vicious rattle and the driving smoke
of motors under test. I did this the more readily as it prevented
the uninstructed from wandering into the path of the machines, which
buzzed about the grounds like crippled beetles trying to rise into the
air.
The grounds, particularly in expectation of a flight by Miss Warren,
bore very much in consequence the appearance of a garden party, and
I looked with pride upon a scene such as only the historic flying
schools of my dear France had hitherto witnessed.
It was with a start that I recognized, while gazing upon this throng
of flower-like women and gallant young men, the figure so tall, so
commanding of the aged Monsieur Warren himself. I knew that he did
not belong to this plutocratic young sporting set, of which he even
disapproved. Moreover, the old financier had never before condescended
to recognize the prowess of his daughter as an aviator. Indeed, I
understood that the least reference to it had been forbidden in his
presence. I hastened forward to welcome him, with joy in this new and
powerful convert to the science of flight, and together we watched
the preparation of Miss Warren's great French biplane, her beautiful
_Cygne_, which she had insisted upon bringing with her from Paris.
Pages:
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449