Waiting alone in the humble comfort of old Xavier’s hovel, with the silver far-off clamour of the playing fields wafting in from outside, Beth, even lovelier — if possible — in her grief, thought once more of dashing Larry Weiland, the sensitive genius who had known her in ways even she did not suspect. He was now, according to her horoscope, the hapless captive of mind-devouring space aliens.
   At long last came a sudden clatter of hooves, and she dropped the brimming wine glass heedlessly on the rug. He was here! “I was a cad, a complete and utter fool! I can’t hope that you’ll ever be able to forgive me — but if you do not, I must die, my dewy, doll-faced delight!” he gasped.
   It was then that the horror of these last months vanished in a blaze of joy, and as he once again began to woo her with the sensual voice of his Stradivarius, she wordlessly let her body melt against his own.