One of the last plays we saw, I remember, was “The Good Hope,” with the charming Eva LeGallienne. The story is a tragedy; all the hopeful characters drown while the most tragic one survives to carry out a cold lamb chop in the last act. A recurring line is “The fish are dearly paid for,” and our crew adopted that as a heraldic motto, emblazoned under a goldfish rampant. I had the opportunity of thanking Miss LeGallienne for her cheering sendoff when I met her on returning to New York. She helped Charles Winninger auction off one of the flags we carried on the flight, at a theatrical performance for the benefit of the Olympic team which was about to sail for Europe on the ship which had brought us back, the President Roosevelt. Anyway, that evening she got us on the stage before 17,280,891 people, so we have two grievances against her. As I look back on the flight I think two questions have been asked me most frequently. First: Was I afraid? Secondly: What did I wear? I’m sorry to be a disappointment in answering the first query. It would sound more exciting if I only could admit having been shockingly frightened. But I honestly wasn’t. Of course I realized there was a measure of danger. Obviously I faced the possibility of not returning when first I considered going. Once faced and settled there really wasn’t any good reason to refer to it again. After all, even when driving one admits tacitly there is danger, but one doesn’t dwell on the result of losing the front wheels or having the rear end fall out on a mountain. Perhaps the second question may be thought feminine, but I have had as many men as women appear interested. Remember the early stages of automobiling? In those days an “auto” ride was a rare experience, made rarer by the clothes one wore. A linen duster, gauntlets and a veil were the requisites of touring in 1907. Fashions in air clothing are emerging from the same sort of chrysalis stage. For routine short flights I wear every-day clothes—what one would use for street wear or sports. But obviously the Friendship flight was different. Compare it, perhaps, to a strenuous camping trip. One couldn’t tell what might happen. Serviceability was the prime requirement. I had to wear breeks because of the jump from the pontoon to the door and also because of the necessity of slipping on and off the flying suit which is worn outside one’s other clothing. In Boston I remember a solicitous friend wished to give me a bag for extra clothing. “There isn’t going to be any,” I explained. That appeared to concern him somewhat—certainly much more than it did me. There seems to be a feeling that a woman preparing to drop in on England, so to speak, ought to have something of a wardrobe. However, I chose to take with me only what I had on. The men on the Friendship took no “extras.” Pounds—even ounces—can count desperately. Obviously I should not load up with unessentials if they didn’t.