Waiting alone in the now-familiar confines of Edwin’s grass hut, with the arcane scent of almond blossoms and frangipani wafting in from outside, the twice-jilted Gordon thought once more of the ‘Parisian Pirate’, Melissa, the brilliant scholar who had wanted to make her his life’s work. He was now, according to that television program, marooned by his own crew on the Isle of Retribution.
   It was then that came the thud of fists, a muffled cry, fighting on the stairway, and she rose to face the inevitable. He was here! “Come to me, you sweet little morsel of girl-flesh!” he stammered.
   Only in this moment of extremity could it have happened that he slid the little ring onto her finger, and as he slid the little ring onto her finger, she wordlessly let her body melt against his own.