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crash-land in the sewage farm that bordered the racetrack. Both walked away without a scratch, much to the relief of Pauline Chase, who, with a perfumed glove over her nose, inquired ever so solicitously after the well-being of Lady Abdy.

    Grahame-White’s charismatic appeal in Europe hadn’t gone unnoticed by the promoters of American aviation meetings, and neither had his fondness for Pauline Chase. That she was coming to New York to star in a Broadway production of Our Miss Gibbs at the Knickerbocker was doubtless used by the promoters as another reason why Grahame-White should accept an invitation to tour the United States. He sailed from En-gland at the end of August, a few days after he had been paid $50,000 for putting on a show in Blackpool on the northwest coast of England. Hundreds of his fans, mostly female, were quayside to wave him off, and only after several minutes did they quiet enough for him to say a few words to the press corps. “I hope to give a good account of myself in the various competitions,” Grahame-White began, at which point a young woman pushed past the reporters and thrust into his hands a good-luck sprig of white heather, asking nothing more in return than a kiss. “I am confident,” he continued, “of being able to maintain the reputation of Great Britain, which I regard as being in advance of America with reference to aerial navigation.”
    When Grahame-White arrived in a rainy Boston on September 1, dozens of American reporters were there to greet him. “Fine flying weather for ducks,” he joked, adding that he was eager to get into action at the Boston Meet in two days’ time. Ever the consummate showman, Grahame-White patiently answered every question with a smile, and he was particularly attentive to the female correspondents who had braved the weather. His diligence paid off handsomely. The Boston Post ’s sob sister wrote that Grahame-White “is possessed of a fine athletic figure and is the best set-up man in the whole flock of birdmen who have entered the Meet. Unlike the silent, mysterious Americans, who seem to be out of their element on the ground, Grahame-White is thoroughly at home with his two feet everywhere.” Another reporter, Phoebe Dwight (this was her nom de plume, her real name being Eleanor Ladd), had a warning for the men of Boston: “If you want your lady-loves’ hearts true to you, it’s hardly safe to amuse them by taking them out to the aviation Meet. For before you know it these hearts may be fluttering along at the tail of an airplane, wherein sits a daring and spectacular young man who has won the title of the matinee idol of the aviation field, Claude Grahame-White.”
    Dwight’s prophecy came to pass, and by the end of the Boston Meet women were falling over themselves to fly with the Englishman. For Grahame-White it was the opportunity to combine several of his passions, and he instructed Sydney McDonald to charge $500 for a five-minute trip. Dozens of women were happy to pay this enormous sum, from Katharine Reid, “a spinsterish schoolmarm who arrived accoutered for the air in outsize motoring goggles, legs swathed mummywise in burlap,” to Marie Campbell, who, in the opinion of the New York Herald , was “an uncommonly attractive young woman . . . with comely features.”
    Of even more interest was the sight of Miss Eleonora Sears being helped up into the seat behind Grahame-White. Instantly, the American newspapers identified the twenty-eight-year-old brunette as Grahame-White’s feminine equivalent. Sears was a Boston socialite, the great-great-granddaughter of Thomas Jefferson and the daughter of a father regarded as one of the wealthiest men in America. She had many other attributes: good looks, charm, talent, and an insatiable energy. The previous spring she had walked 108 miles in two days from Burlingame to Del Monte in California, and barely a day passed without the papers reporting on her latest athletic feat. As for potential