Imogene coughed feebly. “They weren’t exactly lies, there was an essence. . . .”

“They were lies,” Marya said. “I wanted to strangle you.”

Imogene lay without moving, her hands flat on her stomach. She said in a childish vague voice: “Oh, nobody believed anything, it was just . . . talk . . . spinning tales. . . . You know, thinking ‘What if’ . . . that sort of thing. Anyway there was an essence that was true.”

Marya was pacing about the room, the balls of her feet springy, the tendons of her calves strained. “I don’t intend to let you destroy me,” she said softly. “I don’t even intend to do poorly in my courses.” She brushed her hair out of her face and half smiled at Imogene—a flash of hatred. “You won’t make me lose my perfect record,” she said.

“Won’t I,” said Imogene.

Marya laughed. She said, “But why did you concoct a story about your fiancé and me? you know I’ve never even met him; I don’t have any interest in meeting him.”

“Yes you do,” Imogene said, a little sharply. “You’re jealous of him—of him and me.”

“You’re angry that I’m not jealous enough,” Marya said. “Do you think I’d want to sleep with your precious ‘Dickie’?”

“You think so goddam fucking highly of yourself, don’t you,” Imogene said, sitting up, adjusting a pillow impatiently behind her. “You can’t be cracked open, can you? a nut that can’t be cracked,” she said, laughing, yawning. “A tight little virgin, I suppose. And Catholic too! what a joke! Very very proud of yourself.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me on the phone, why didn’t you answer my note?” Marya asked quietly.

“Why did you avoid me on campus?”

“Avoid you when?”

“Why do you always look the other way?”

“Look the other way when?”

“All the time.”

Marya was striking her hands, her fists, lightly together. She drew a deep shaky breath. “As for the coat—you gave me the coat. Your precious Salvation Army gesture. You gave me the coat, you forced it on me.”

“Oh Knauer, nobody forces anything on you,” Imogene said, sneering. “What bullshit!”

“I want to know why you’ve been spreading lies about me and ridiculing me behind my back,” Marya said levelly.

Imogene pulled at her hair in a lazy, mawkishly theatrical gesture. “Hey. Did I tell you? I’m transferring out of here next year,” she said. “I’m going to school somewhere in New York, N.Y.U. probably. The drama courses are too restrained here, there’s too much crap about tradition. . . .”

“I said I want to know why.”