Waiting alone in the study, by the fiercely-staring portrait she so loathed, with the unconquered sprightly piping of the Vicar’s flageolet wafting in from outside, Hank thought once more of Doctor Pierre, the man she had belonged to so completely. He was now, according to father, the hapless captive of mind-devouring space aliens.
   Just then, came the sound of her own name being called, and she gasped. He was here! “I’ve thought of you every minute I’ve been away, my Oriental pearl!” he stated with a confidence that brooked neither denial nor disagreement.
   Suddenly, he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him, and as there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, she wondered if this would be a good time to remind him about the books he had borrowed.