The drive through the isloated Geneva countryside from Madame Duvallon's chalet to the Aérodrome de Cointrin is breathtakingly beautiful at this time of year. Below the distant snow-capped Alps, the lower mountain slopes and valleys are decked in flowers and the lakes are fringed with rich foliage. The two young girls in the back seat barely blink an eye at the lush vineyards, fortified houses and charming castles whizzing by as they pour intently over the well-worn pages of their beloved books, sharing in excited whispers tidbits of intriguing and offtimes shocking information. Emma's book detailing the grizzly murders of 15th century French nobleman Gilles de Rais is cleverly concealed by the cover of Anna Karenin, thought by many to be the greatest classic novel ever written. She has been in trouble before for reading paperback crime detection novels, a guilty pleasure the majority of the civilised world regards as a cheap thrill. Institutions of higher learning refuse to recognise such popular art, as does Madame, who encourages the study of high art. Emma is quite convinced she would not approve of Monsieur de Rais intruding upon their enjoyment of such a fine day, even if he was respectably French. As the automobile nears aerodrome, Emma spots her parents waiting to see her off. She quickly hides the illicit reading material, for she knows her mother, the Honourable Elisabeth Montverre Godwinson, is even less likely to approve of Monsieur de Rais. Fortunately, she approves of Madamme Duvallon, in spite of her having married a Frenchman. She has every confidence in her School for Young Ladies and is relieved to have sent her daughter to Switzerland, where the majestic mountaintop sanitoria for the treatment of consumption are readily accessible. The horrid wasting disease often referred to by John Bunyan's apt sobriquet "Captain of all these Men of Death" had taken its toll in Great Britain this winter. "How does she do it?" the Hon. Elisabeth demands of the nearest spectators, which happen to be her husband and daughter. "How does who do what, dear?" Sir Tedmund asks, scanning the horizon for the culprit. "How does that women fly that aeroplane!?" she retorts fiercely, fixing him with a glare that implies he has the wit of a mealy worm. "I should image the way any aviator who is au fait with aeroplanes flies them." "Well, she hardly seems strong enough to my way of thinking!" "To do what?" "To keep an aeroplane suspended in the sky." Sir Tedmund snaps his mouth shut and looks to his daughter for support. Emma is preoccupied with clutching her precious cloche against the wind and inching away from her parents, pretending not to hear. She looks uncomfortable in the outdated coat dress favoured by her mother. She also seems off-colour compared to her usual perkiness. Deep down she is anxious to be on her way to Monaco with Madame and Amalie — anywhere to escape her mother's blinkered view of how the world works. Seeing her dear father's predicament, she comes to his aid...not that he's a weed. In her eyes Sir Tedmund is quite masculine and dashingly handsome. The Hon. Elisabeth has a way of reducing most anyone to a state of gaping silence. "Fiddle sticks mother! Have you not heard of Amelia Ariston, America's ace aviatrix? She's a blinding success story!" "A what!? I do wish you would stop abusing the King's English with those dreadful slang words." "Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English," Sir Tedmund quips. Elisabeth studiously ignores her husband's sarcasm and fixes her attention firmly on her daughter. "Now do run along. It will not do to keep Madame Duvallon waiting. Wait! You forgot your Swiss chocolates and cheese." "I feel quite certain she's had enough cheese for one day," Sir Tedmund coughs into the hollow of his hand. "Beg pardon, dear?" "I said, I'm sure she'll have enough cheese for the day." Suppressing a giggle, Emma gives her father a fond peck on the cheek and rescues the parcel of travel treats from her mother's outstretched arms. "Toodles! See you in Monaco in August!" she shouts excitdly over the impressively large eight-passenger Bréguet's roaring engine as she clutches her prized cloche and makes good her escape from her well-meaning but decidedly overbearing mother.