He dropped into a chair opposite her; she sat on the piano-stool considering him for a while in silence. Then, dropping her arms with a helpless little gesture: "We are going to have a baby. Are you--annoyed?" For a second he sat as though paralysed, and the next second he had her in his arms, the grin breaking out from utter blankness. "You're a corker, ducky!" he whispered. "You for me all the time!" "Jim!... Really?" "Surest thing you know! Which is it?--boy or--Oh, I beg your pardon, dear--I'm not accustomed to the etiquette. But I'm delighted, ducky, overwhelmed!" "Oh, Jim! I'm so glad. And I'm crazy about it--perfectly mad about it.... And you're a dear to care----" "Certainly I care! What do you take me for--a wooden Indian!" he exclaimed virtuously. "Come on and we'll celebrate----" "But, Jim! We can't _tell_ people." "Oh--that's the christening. I forgot, ducky. No, we can't talk about it of course. But I'll do anything you say----" "Will you?" "Will I? Watch me!" "Then--then _don't_ take out the Stinger for a while. Do you mind, dear?" "What!" he said, jaw dropping. "I can't bear it, Jim. I was a good sport before; you know I was. But my nerve has gone. I can't take chances now; I _want_ you to see--it----" After a moment he nodded. "Sure," he said. "It's like Lent. You've got to offer up something.... If you feel that way--" he sighed unconsciously--"I'll lock up the hangar until----" "Oh, darling! Will you?" "Yes," said that desolate young man, and kissed his wife without a scowl. He had behaved pretty well--about like the majority of husbands outside of popular romances. The amateur aeronauts left in the morning before anybody was stirring except the servants--Vincent Wier, Lester Caldera, the Van Dynes and the rest, bag, baggage, and, later, two aeroplanes packed and destined for Barent Van Dyne's Long Island estate where there was to be some serious flying attempted over the flat and dusty plains of that salubrious island. Sir Charles Mallison was leaving that same day, later; and there were to be no more of Jim's noisy parties; and now under the circumstances, no parties of Molly's, either; because Molly was becoming nervous and despondent and a mania for her husband possessed her--the pretty resurgence of earlier sentiment which, if not more than comfortably dormant, buds charmingly again at a time like this. Also she wanted Strelsa, and nobody beside these two; and although she liked parties of all sorts including Jim's sporting ones, and although she liked Sir Charles immensely, she was looking forward to comfort of an empty house with only her husband to decorate the landscape and Strelsa to whisper to in morbid moments. For Chrysos was going to Newport, Sir Charles and her maid accompanying her as far as New York from where the Baronet meant to sail the next day.