She was out on the porch, watching the sky toward Tucson and looking rather wistful, while Johnny was generously sorting out clothes for Bland and insisting upon the bath and the change before Bland should sleep in Johnny's bed.

Mary V, you will observe, had no telepathic sense at all.
She watched while dark came and brought its star canopy,--and did not bring Johnny.

Long after she saw the rim of hills draw back into vague shadows, she remained on the porch and listened for the hum of the airplane speeding toward her.

He would come, of course; he loved her.
Johnny did love her more than he had ever loved any one in his life, but a man's love is not like a woman's love, they say.
"He must have had some trouble with his motor," Mary V observed optimistically to her sleepy parents, when their early bedtime arrived.
"I'm going to leave the lights all on, so he'll see where to land.

It will be tremendously exciting to hear him come buzzing up in the dark.
It'll sound exactly like an air raid--only he won't have any bombs to drop." "He'll have himself to drop," her mother tactlessly pointed out.