Waiting alone in the frost-blue frock he had so often praised, with the barbarian, unknowable scent of almond blossoms and frangipani wafting in from outside, the softly-sobbing Dorothy thought once more of Forsythe Hershey, the man she had belonged to so completely. He was now, according to three independent witnesses, seeking a new life as a Foreign Legionnaire.
   Suddenly, came an eerie chill of premonition, and she leapt to her feet with hope — and alarm — in her eyes. He was here! “I’ve been mad, simply mad, without you to douse my fires, my dewy, doll-faced delight!” he said in the outwardly-rough manner she had grown to love.
   At long last the glow of renewed love gradually overcame her mounting desire for dinner, and as it dawned on her that her days of loneliness were over, she wondered if this would be a good time to remind him about the books he had borrowed.