“. . . simply couldn’t be any more proud of him,” Mrs. Mallory was saying. “Flying’s always been his life. We’re just a poor second, Pixie and me.”

“Now, that’s not true, darling,” said Sam.

“Yes, it is. And it’s perfectly fine! When you’re married to a genius, gentlemen, you have to understand that his work must come first. You have a duty to the world to give his ambition full rein, to take care of hearth and home and let him do all those great things the Almighty means him to do.”

Then Mrs. Mallory squeezed her husband’s arm and smiled at him worshipfully, while he offered a small, tight grin to the cameras. Irene stuck her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She had changed into her flying costume, similar to Sam’s, which was military in style, a khaki tunic and a Sam Browne belt over cavalry-style breeches, long golf socks, shiny leather shoes. Her hair was scraped back in a snug bun at the nape of her neck. She and Sophie stood at the fringe of the crowd, arm in arm.

“All right, all right,” said Sam. “You’ve got your snaps. We’ve got a flight to prepare for. Has anyone seen Miss Foster?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mallory. “Miss Foster. Where is she? I’m so eager to meet her.”

“She’s right here!” Sophie called.

The reaction was like a frenzy. The details of Miss Foster’s identity had been kept so carefully quiet until now, she was like the lost city of Eldorado. Nobody in the press had ever spoken to her or even seen her. A few of the older, more cynical hands in the newsroom had figured she didn’t even exist, that she’d been created for publicity purposes, or was actually a man after all. So you can imagine the fuss when Irene waved her hand and said Good morning, gentlemen! It went something like this, except the questions came all at once:

Miss Foster! Miss Foster!

Any thoughts on the upcoming flight, Miss Foster?

Is it true you’re only just meeting Mrs. Mallory today, Miss Foster?

All right if we take your photograph, Miss Foster?

“Why, yes,” she said. “I don’t see why not.”