Between the pages of a library book on trekking in the far distances, he came upon a passport-sized photograph of a woman he had long yearned for.  He had succeeded in keeping out of her way, but kept bumping into her in these other ways.  The picture must have been left there by a present-day suitor — and wasn’t it interesting that, for a woman who sought a home-centered life with all its sacred practices, she took to men who roamed?  He would have given it more thought had it not then become obvious to him that two men who roamed the far distances had both sought a home — and it was she.  But this too slipped his mind when he saw how he had just then insinuated a present-day suitor into the story to play yet another obstacle in his path back to her.  He realized this tendency in him would not stop.  He needed the hands of fate to wiggle their fingers.  He rummaged in his office for a passport-sized picture of himself.  He inserted it with hers in the book and returned the book to the library.  If ever she came across them, he reasoned, fate’s fingers would then be wiggling, and he’d have his consent to act.