I told her I understood. Culpepper and I had lucked out and been spared getting splattered by the remains of Marie Prasquier.

“The police held the crowd for about an hour, taking names and checking identification, and then they got a ferry just for us. It went to San Francisco, then back across to Oakland and the landing here in Berkeley. By the time I got back to my room, all I wanted was me sitting in a tub of scalding hot water with an open box of 20 Mule Team Borax soap on my lap, and then I had to play this concert here. I figured if worst came to worst I’d get back in touch with you at your hotel.” She smiled at me. “The great thing about Jack Donovan playing at the Claremont is that I knew exactly where I could find you at eight tonight.”

She led me out of the carillonist’s cabin and the tower itself and we ambled downhill, crossing a little footbridge over a gossiping stream. Gail stopped in her tracks and began rubbing her right hand. “I think I may have jammed my wrist on one of the carillon bars,” she said. “Would you mind carrying my books for a few minutes while I flex my hands?”

I said I wouldn’t mind one bit and took her book strap from her, manfully holding the bundle of volumes against my right side.

It seemed that every third male student whose path we crossed knew Gail by name. She jauntily acknowledged greetings from the opposite sex more efficiently than a politician working the crowd at a Labor Day parade. I caught more than one fellow looking back over his own shoulder, mostly at Gail, although one sporting young man flashed me a low “okay” sign, while several others simply shot daggers my way.

Gail said, “I’m going to get out of these clothes now, is that okay?” I looked around at the crowded street and she laughed. “No, I mean, we’re here, where I live.”

We were standing in front of what looked like a small, Occidentally run museum for Oriental art. A neatly painted sign read BERKELEY WOMEN’S INDEPENDENT COLLEGIATE CLUB.

“Nice digs, don’t you think?” Gail said.

“Your dormitory?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not really a dorm—or a sorority for that matter. The club is owned by a group of female Berkeley graduates, and they rent some of the rooms to students. Mine’s tiny, but it has a little terrace.” She twitched restlessly. “I have to get out of this clothing, and then I thought we could plan out our work schedule. Assuming you’re still all aboard.”

I recalled having said only that I would listen to her composition. This, however, was before I’d carried her books.

“Oh, I’m all aboard,” I reassured her.