No; the softly-sobbing Forsythe was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the scent of almond blossoms and frangipani nor the frost-blue frock he had so often praised impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that tall Trader Peter, the tenebrous only man she had ever really loved, had a full life in which he was in the clutches of Becky Mellon and his gang of cutthroats, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one undeniable girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most ophidian day when persistent rumours had brought him to her attention.
   Suddenly, an eerie chill of premonition shattered her composure into a million passionate pieces! She dropped the brimming wine glass heedlessly on the rug. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the ultramarine and masculine face she had come to know so well! “Our love will outlast eternity,” he husked while the horror of these last months vanished in a blaze of joy. “I need you, my Oriental pearl!”
   At that moment as he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not brightest. Wthout him, could she ever have woke up. Incredibly enough, it had all been a dream?