worships the ground that he walks on and the air that he occasionally
flies in. So whenever I run up to the City of Light, _en permission_,
I look her up, and take her the latest news--and for an hour, over
the candles, we pretend that I am Philippe, and that she is Janie.
Only she says that I don't pretend very well--and it's just possible
that she's right.

"_Mon petit coeur et grand trésor_, I wish that I could take you
flying with me this evening. You'd be daft about it! Lots of it's a
rotten bore, of course, but there's something in me that doesn't
live at all when I'm on this too, too solid earth. Something that
lies there, crouched and dormant, waiting until I've climbed up into
the seat, and buckled the strap about me and laid my hands on the
'stick.' It's waiting--waiting for a word--and so am I. And I lean
far forward, watching the figure toiling out beyond till the call
comes back to me, clear and confident, 'Contact, sir?' And I shout
back, as restless and exultant as the first time that I answered
it--'Contact!'

"And I'm off--and I'm alive--and I'm free! Ho, Janie! That's simpler
than Abracadabra or Open Sesame, isn't it? But it opens doors more
magical than ever they swung wide, and something in me bounds through,
more swift and eager than any Aladdin. Free! I'm a crazy sort of a
beggar, my little love--that same thing in me hungers and thirsts and
aches for freedom. I go half mad when people or events try to hold
me--you, wise beyond wisdom, never will. Somehow, between us, we've
struck the spark that turns a mere piece of machinery into a wonder
with wings--somehow, you are forever setting me free. It is your
voice--your voice of silver and peace--that's eternally whispering
'Contact!' to me--and I am released, heart, soul, and body! And