workshop of the gods. As far back as she could look, life had been dull — colourless — savourless. Now she had come to a little patch of violets, purple and fragrant — hers for the plucking. No matter who or what had been in Barney’s past — no matter who or what might be in his future — no one else could ever have this perfect hour. She surrendered herself utterly to the charm of the moment.

“Ever dream of ballooning?’ said Barney suddenly.

“No,” said Valancy.

“I do — often. Dream of sailing through the clouds — seeing the glories of sunset — spending hours in the midst of a terrific storm with lightning playing above and below you — skimming above a silver cloud floor under a full moon —