Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He looked in a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written, she had answered. The next day he had been sent overseas, but they had gone on writing. For 13 months, she had faithfully replied. Even when his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him. But she had refused to send him her photograph. She had explained: "if your feeling for me has any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always wonder if you were interested only in my beauty, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain. Then I'd always fear that you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you will see me and then you can make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that." One minute to six. Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart jumped higher than his plane had ever flown.