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nodded. “Major?”
    “English.”
    “Hall?”
    “Evans.”
    He nodded again and struck a pose with one hand on his hip and the other stroking his beard. “Linda Shepard from Cleveland,” he said. “What in the world do you do?”
    “Do?”
    “Do,” he repeated. “Some people play tennis. Others paint murals on lavatory walls. Still others climb mountains. I just wondered what—”
    “Oh,” she said. “I … well, I … I don’t do much of anything.”
    He shook his head as if he was thoroughly ashamed of her but she could tell he was making fun of her. “That’s bad,” he said. “That’s very bad. Like an oyster.”
    “An oyster?”
    “They just sit on the bottom of the ocean. They never do a damned thing.”
    She waited.
    “I’m Don Gibbs,” he said. “ Record editor.”
    “I know.”
    “Oh?” He seemed surprised. “You said you majored in English?”
    She nodded.
    “Why don’t you drop up to the Record office tonight? I’ll find something for you to do and you won’t have to wander around bumping into people and feeling like an oyster.”
    “I—”
    “The paper comes out tomorrow,” he went on. “There are always too many things to do on Thursday night. I can use some help. Can you spell?”
    She nodded, mystified.
    “Then you can read copy and proof. Drop up any time after eight.”
    “I … I have a date tonight.”
    “Congratulations,” he said. “Everybody should have them. Like parents.”
    “Parents?”
    “Parents. Everybody should have dates and parents and things like that. But what does that have to do with it? The date isn’t going to last until morning, is it?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Well, drop up after the date is over. It’s simple enough, really. All you have to do is go on your date until your date isn’t any more and then come up to the office. Okay?”
    “Sure,” she said. “I guess so.”
    He nodded, smiled another smile as brief as the first, and started walking off briskly. She stood watching him for a few seconds until she realized what she was doing. Then she turned and hurried to the library.
    Joe was dull that night.
    She realized this, and as she realized it she also realized that she wasn’t being entirely fair to Joe. It wasn’t his fault—the movie he took her to was a first-rate foreign film, the beer at the tavern was cold, the pizza properly spicy. And Joe’s conversation was as pleasant and warm as ever.
    It wasn’t Joe’s fault, but Joe was dull. He hadn’t been dull before, and this bothered her. Because she knew why he seemed dull now. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he seemed dull. He seemed dull because, by comparison to Don Gibbs, Joe Gunsway just didn’t sparkle.
    She fought against this realization. When Joe parked the car in front of her dorm and kissed her, she forced herself to respond as passionately as possible, pulling him tight against her and probing his mouth with her tongue, sending his pulse racing even if her own remained quite steady.
    It was a few minutes after midnight when Joe walked her from the car to the door, gave her a final kiss, and left her. It was another minute or so after midnight when she walked from her dormitory to the Student Union. First she waited until Joe’s car was out of sight, because she didn’t want him to know where she was going. She didn’t think he would mind—she certainly didn’t have a date with Don, but was only going to do some work on the newspaper. But she didn’t want him asking any questions.
    It was dark out, and the streetlights were spaced very far apart along the road to the Student Union. She walked quickly, hoping she looked as good as Joe had assured her she did. She was wearing her black skirt, the one she had been wearing that afternoon, with a white cashmere sweater. The sweater was very tight and not particularly warm, but the last time a girl wore a sweater to keep warm was in 1823. It did what it was supposed to do admirably. Her