Olga had said, "the champeen lady-aviator of Madison Avenue."

Hermia lunched alone--out of humor with all the world--and went
upstairs with a volume of plays which had just come from the
stationer. But she had hardly settled herself comfortably when Titine
announced Mrs. Westfield.

It was the ineffectual Aunt.

"Oh, yes," with an air of resignation, "tell Mrs. Westfield to come up."

She pulled the hair over her temples to conceal the scars of her
morning's accident and met Mrs. Westfield at the landing outside.

"_Dear_ Aunt Harriet. So glad," she said, grimacing cheerfully to
salve her conscience. "What _have_ I been doing now?"

"What _haven't_ you been doing, child?"

The good lady sank into a chair, the severe lines in her face more than
usually acidulous, but Hermia only smiled sweetly, for Mrs. Westfield's
forbidding aspect, as she well knew, concealed the most indulgent of
dispositions.

"Playing polo with men, racing in your motor and getting yourself
talked about in the papers! Really, Hermia, what will you be doing
next?"

"Flying," said Hermia.