"Do you like to
float about and smoke?"
The sun-browned skin of the young aviator reddened a trifle, but his
eyes laughed.
"I'm an incurable optimist," he lightly countered, "or I wouldn't have
tried to fly over a private lake in a borrowed aeroplane."
"I believe," said Diane disapprovingly, "that you were cutting giddy
circles over the water and dipping and skimming, weren't you?"
"I did cut a monkeyshine or two," admitted the young man. "I was
having a devil of a time until you--until the--er--catastrophe
occurred."
"And Miss Westfall, the owner," murmured Diane with sympathy, "is
addicted to firearms. Hadn't you heard? She _hunts_! The Westfalls
are all very erratic and quick-tempered. Didn't you know she was at
the farm?"
The young man looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
"Great guns, no!" he exclaimed. "I presumed she was safe in New
York. . . . And this is her lake and her water and her waves, when
there are any, and no matter how I engineer it, I've got to poach some
of her property. Some of it," he added conversationally, "is in my
shoe. Lord, I am in a pickle! Are you a guest of hers?"
"Yes," said Diane calmly.
"I'm staying over yonder on the hill there with Dick Sherrill," offered
the young man cordially.
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