He lit his pipe and blew smoke rings, staring at each one as it drifted upward to build a hazy scaffolding of gray. When he spoke again, he continued in that soft, storytelling tone. But his face appeared cautious, as if he were veering away from an emotion that would interrupt him.

“The PTA gave me a one-year scholarship, something they’d never have given a Hoople. I got my picture in the paper and then I got a letter from Wanda. It said: ‘Dear Frank, I’m sorry about that day. Good luck in college and in the future. Sincerely, Wanda Lowell—parentheses Hoople.’ You know what got me? The parentheses. Reminding me as if she were forgettable. No one should ever have to feel that way.” Then in the next breath, but out of nowhere, he said: “I hate it when people just breed.”

The mixture of sadness and repugnance startled me, but I had no time to respond. He looked at me full face and said, “Why have you been showing an interest in me?”

“Because I’ve never gone out with a history major.” It was a stupid cover-up, far beneath my talents, and that tolerant smile of his made me feel more ridiculous. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

“Well,” he said, “it’s not because I look like Clark Gable and it’s not because you’ve seen me driving around in a Cadillac. I’m not one of the campus lovers.” He smirked. “It must be my reputation as the life of the party.”

“Don’t toy with me.”

“Don’t you toy with me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t enjoy being a diverting amusement. Although in your case . . .”

“You haven’t given me a chance to. I’m surprised you even bothered to find out my name!”

“I found out a lot this morning. Your name is Irene Abigail Rutledge. Student number: 111314. Hometown: Cedar Run. Major: English. Birth date: June 1, 1936. Two younger brothers. B.A., summa cum laude. The English Department’s model student and secretly—or semi-secretly—leched after by two esteemed members of same department.”

“What!”

“You’re very confident, probably too bright for your own good, susceptible to alcohol, aggressiveness and sarcasm, charming when made to feel secure, intolerant of carelessness (yesterday’s incident), and lovely to look at in any mood.” He paused, lowering his voice. “And perversely fond of shaking up scarecrows.”

There seemed to be tiny fish swimming through my blood: my hands felt twitchy although they were perfectly limp in my lap. “How did you find out all that?”

“I never reveal my sources.”

“You’re not a scarecrow,” I said, “but I’d like to hear how I shook you up.”

“I’m sure you would. But you have a capful of feathers already. I’ll tell you about it later—when I’m over it.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to be over it.”

He got up and brought over the wine. We drank and stared at each other. He gave in and lowered his eyes.

“I guess,” he said, “this is where I’m supposed to take you in my arms.”