Ordinarily I do not find it easy to talk to very young men. I have been as young as they, but they have not been as old as I, and I know this but they do not. Young women—that is another matter, and I will make a very candid confession. I now envy these youngsters their youth. I envied Smith his youth. Despite his limp, I was conscious of his tallness and lissomness as he hobbled by my side. And I will add that it is not an unmixed joy to be asked to do a young goddess's shopping for her because you are "quite the kindest person she knows."

It would hardly be true to say that my acquaintance with young Smith had made no progress at all. I had made quite a number of interesting observations on his idyll of petrol, love and crime. But he for his part was still at the stage of apology for his "neck" in asking Joan to ask me to buy his pipes and tobacco for him, and by way of leveling up the obligation had actually sent for a copy of that dandy book that I as a novelist must on no account miss, The Crimson Specter of Hangman Hollow. But I was still "Sir" to him and he hardly "Chummy" to me, and our small-talk was quite small. It was certainly small enough as we left the thymy hollow and slowly made for the cliff-tops.

"Tell me if I walk too quickly for you," I said. His hurt was to his right ankle, and his stick left a trail of little round holes in the turf.

"Oh, that's all right, thanks, sir," he said cheerfully, pegging away; and he added with a chuckle, "I say, between you and I, old Philip was rather in a paddy, wasn't he?"

"Between you and me he was," I said. I corrected him quite deliberately. Now that the failure of the sparking-plug had put this opportunity into my hands I was determined at all costs to know more of him. Hence my—well grossiÈretÉ. But he noticed nothing. Instead he broke out with a feigned enthusiasm.

"I say, these pipes are turning out jolly well! Lovely bit of straight grain this one! You do know how to choose a pipe, sir! Are they French or Italian briar?"

"French."

"Jolly nice bit of root!"

"I'm very glad."

"Cool as a nut. Joan's quite right about my smoking too many cigarettes. They're all right for the street—I hate to see a fellow smoking a pipe in the street—and gaspers smell a bit sickly to other people sometimes, don't you think?"

I agreed with this too.

"I suppose the Specter hasn't turned up yet?" was his next effort, as he sat down to rest for a minute.

"Not yet."

"I do hope it isn't out of print. How soon does a book go out of print, sir—on an average?"

Weakly I thought of "Why does the razorbill razorbill?" and, I am afraid, found nothing to reply....

Then, as he continued to babble laboriously across the gulf that separated us, I remembered again certain tubular parcels that arrived for him by post, which, when stripped of their wrappings, turned out to contain the Transactions and Proceedings of this Society or that. Seeing these left lying about I had peeped into them, and had been brought up standing against such intimidating fences as the following:—

"Aerofoil Sections in relation to Speed Range."

"Influence of Wave-friction on Aerodynamic Resistances."

"Notes on Lateral Stability."

My simple literary mind faints in regions such as these. His presumably did not. This apparently was his ordinary reading, the Specter his relaxation.

"—amber beads," the words came across the void that separated soul from soul. "Just the shade I meant—neither too yellow nor too brown—I'm afraid it took up an awful lot of your time——"

It was here that I took my plunge.

"What," I said, looking steadily at him, "is the Influence of Wind-friction on Aerodynamic Resistance?"

His jaw dropped, as well it might. I knew that for a moment he was wondering whether I had taken leave of my senses.

"Eh?" he said.

I repeated the question. Of course, I no more wanted information about Aerodynamic Resistance than I did about briar pipes and amber beads. It was information about Charles Valentine Smith that I wanted and intended to have.

I date my possession of him from the moment that that look of consternation came into his face. It broke upon me that I had put him into some position that he felt he must immediately explain. Indeed he half rose, as if, having obtained my acquaintance under false pretenses, he must set himself right or leave me.

"Oh, I say, sir!" he broke anxiously out. "Do you mean those Journals and things?"

"That's what I had in my mind. Especially the blue-covered ones."

"Oh lord! You don't suppose I can make head or tail of those!"

"Not make head or tail of them? But I've seen you reading them."

He seemed positively sick to extricate himself from my too flattering opinion of him.

"Me understand all that! I could kick myself if you think that! Why, that's all designers' stuff—they've got brains, those chaps—shiploads of them—why, I should never have heard of the things but for——" He checked himself.

"But——" I began, puzzled.

He was blushing—blushing like a young girl.

"I know," he said. "I feel a most awfully ass. The fact is, sir, I just moon over those things, lose myself in 'em, sort of. I don't know the first thing about 'em. Of course, there are bits here and there—engines and practical flying and all that—I know a bit about that—what I mean to say is, a fellow doesn't want to miss anything—it's hard to explain——"

On the contrary: it was not at all hard to explain. Simply, I had caught him day-dreaming. That vivid color still in his cheeks told me that I had stumbled on a privacy. A young girl approaching womanhood knows these soft oubliances, these shy yet hardy excursions of the spirit that lead nowhither and die of their own over-sweetness. It is love of which she dreams; and this was his equivalent. He just "mooned." It was not understanding—he "didn't want to miss anything." His was not a technician's, but a poet's nature. And caught unawares he blushed.

"Of course my real job would be one of these Expeditions," he mumbled.

I pursued him relentlessly. "Which Expeditions?"

"Well, between you and I, they've started work on several of them. In Africa and India and places. You see I'm awfully keen on Air-geography. If this dashed ankle of mine ever gives me a chance again, that is. Bobby always said that was my line of country. He was the chap for the technical end. Thought in surds, Bobby did. He put me on to all those Journals and things, and—after—well, I sort-of keep it up. He was your man for that."

"By Bobby do you mean your friend Maxwell?"

"Yes. Bobby," he replied, his eyes far out over the sea.