"Quite," he laughed, beginning to feel more at home, "but in a different way. And I prefer your way," he added with sincerity. "That is a little crude," she smiled. "I expected a more delicate compliment from a man of your education. Please pay me one at once." To be asked for a delicate compliment at a moment's notice must be much the same as if the _Punch_ editor were asked for a joke instanter. You can imagine Mr. Seaman being introduced with, "This is Mr. Seaman--_Punch_, you know." "How charming! Please, Mr. Seaman, be good enough to be funny," and the resulting _debacle_ of Mr. Seaman. Lionel felt empty of all wit and ideas. He simply looked at her and shook his head. "I am sorry ... you have silenced me." She smiled provokingly. "Try!" He shook his head again with a sudden sadness. As he observed her, devotedly absorbing every detail of her dress, her charming attitude, her delicate color, the dainty foot in the lavender stocking and trim black shoe pushed seductively forward, the glorious hair, and brilliance of her eyes, the incarnation of youth and joy (and he excused her that, remember, for the compulsion of her marriage), he groaningly realized that his late logic would not hold. He loved her and wanted her: he knew that he would not be mercenary in asking, but he felt he could not after all. To think of asking for such a lovely creature, without a penny of his own--he could not do it. He was wrong, he told himself, and felt that his ideals were true, but it was impossible. His face grew grim as he looked at her. The smile faded from her lips. "What is it?" she said softly. "Is anything the matter, my ... friend?" He was near the breaking-point, and had that moment continued he might have told her all. But an interruption--a twentieth-century interruption--saved him. From the deeps of the air was heard a dull humming. The noise increased every moment, and Beatrice looked perplexedly about her. "Do you hear it," she asked, "that curious noise?... Like a gigantic bee...." Lionel had heard a similar noise before and was not perplexed. "It must be an aeroplane," he said reassuringly: "it sounds as if it were quite close. Perhaps that clump of trees hides its approach." His surmise proved correct, for in a brief space the machine soared into view like some beautiful bird. "There it is!" they cried together, standing like two delighted children watching a kindly rock from the _Arabian Nights_. "Why! what is it going to do?" continued Beatrice, speaking as if the monoplane were a living creature. "See! it has changed its course ... it is circling round like a bird of prey." "It looks as if he meant to land," said Lionel, "and was seeking for a suitable place. Yes, by jove! he's found it. Now watch!"