'You remember the aeroplanes that mademoiselle took you to see at Chartres?
The ones where they let you touch the bombs?
They didn't hurt you, did they?
Those were good aeroplanes.
Those over there are the same sort.
They won't hurt us.'
Ronnie, anxious to display expert technical knowledge, endorsed these statements.
'Good aeroplanes are our own aeroplanes, aren't they, Mr Howard?'
'That's right,' the old man said.
Nicole drew him a little way aside.
'I don't know how you can think of such things to say,' she said in a low tone.
'But those are German aeroplanes.'
'I know that.
But one has to say something.'
She stared at the three pencil-like shapes in the far distance.
'It was marvellous when aeroplanes were things of pleasure,' she said.
He nodded.
'Have you ever flown?' he asked.
She said: Twice, at a fete, just for a little way each time.
And then the time I flew with John over Paris.
It was wonderful, that...'
He was interested.
'You went with a pilot, I suppose.
Or did he pilot the machine himself?'
She said: 'But he flew it himself, of course, m'sieur.
It was just him and me.'
'How did he get hold of the aeroplane?'
He knew that in a foreign country there were difficulties in aviation.
She said: 'He took me to dance, at the flying club, in the Rue Francois Premier.
He had a friend - un capitaine de l'Aeronautique - that he had met in England when he had been with our Embassy in London.
And this friend arranged everything for John.'
She said: 'Figurez-vous, monsieur! I could not get him to one art gallery, not one!
All his life he is used to spend in flying, and then he comes to Paris for a holiday and he wants to go to the aerodrome and fly!'
He smiled gently.
'He was like that... Did you enjoy yourself?'
She said: 'It was marvellous.
It was a fine, sunny day with a fresh breeze, and we drove out to Orly, to the hangar of the flying club. And there, there was a beautiful aeroplane waiting for us, with the engine running.'
Her face clouded a little, and then she smiled.
'I do not know very much about flying,' she said frankly.
'It was very chic, with red leather seats and chromium steps to make it easy to get in.
But John was so rude.'
The old man said: 'Rude?'
'He said it looked like a bed bug, monsieur, but not so that the mechanics could hear what he said.
I told him that I was very cross to hear him say such a thing, when they had been so kind to lend it to us.
He only laughed.
And then, when we were flying over Paris at grande vitesse, a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour or more, he turned to me and said:
"And what's more, it flies like one!"
Imagine that!
Our aeroplanes are very good, monsieur.
Everybody in France says so.'