“Why should you kiss me?” Marya said, equally angry, “when you don’t even like me? When you know I don’t like you in the slightest, when we haven’t anything to say to each other, when we’re just waiting for the evening to get finished! in fact we’ve been made fools of, both of us. And now you want to kiss me,” she said, jeering, “just for something to do.”

He began to protest but Marya dismissed him with a derisory wave of her hand. She was going to walk back, she said; she was through with them all. Especially Imogene.

Matthew followed along behind her for a few minutes, trying to talk her into coming back to the car. It was almost midnight, he said; the campus was two miles away; what if something happened to her . . . ? Marya ignored him and walked faster, descending the hill past a slow stream of cars that were ascending it, their headlights blinding her eyes. She lowered her head, tried to hide her face, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her camel’s-hair coat. At first she was furious—almost sick with fury—her head rang with accusations against Imogene—but the cold still night air was so invigorating, so wonderfully cleansing, she felt quite good by the time she got to Maynard House, not very long after midnight. She felt very good.

Next day, Sunday, Imogene stood at the downstairs desk ringing Marya’s buzzer repeatedly, one two three four, one two three four, and then one long rude ring, until Marya appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair in a towel. “Who the hell—?” she called down. She and Imogene stared at each other. Then Imogene said contemptuously, “Here’s your purse, you left your purse in the car, Knauer. D’you know, Knauer, your behavior is getting eccentric, it isn’t even amusing, just what if something had happened to you last night—walking back here all alone—a college girl, in some of those neighborhoods!—don’t you think Lyle and Matt and I would feel responsible? But you,” she said, her voice rising, “you haven’t the slightest sense of—of responsibility to other people—”

“Just leave the purse,” Marya said, leaning over the banister. “Leave it and go back to screwing what’s-his-name—that’s your responsibility—”

“Go screw yourself!” Imogene shouted. “Go fuck yourself!”

“Go fuck yourself!” Marya shouted.

AS THE STORIES sifted back to Marya, over a period of a week or ten days, they became increasingly disturbing, ugly.

In one version Marya Knauer had been almost attacked—that is, raped—in a black neighborhood near the foot of Tower Hill; and had run back to her residence hall, hysterical and sobbing. It was an even graver insult that her purse had been taken from her—her purse and all her money.