“No, I’m pretty free and clear, although I was counting on Ada to sub for me in a pinch and now I don’t think I can rely on her.” She frowned. “I’m sure she’s trying to show her disdain for me and the Exposition simply because my composition beat out hers. She’s an aspiring composer, like me, only very, um . . .” Gail searched carefully for the right word. “Traditional.” I could tell she meant this to be a synonym for “boring.”

I made what I misguidedly thought was a joke. “Did she call her composition Suite Adeline?”

She shook her head, vigorously. “No, listen, if you meet her— and I’m sure you will—do not so much as whistle the tune of ‘Sweet Adeline,’ and don’t call her Addy, either. She’s Adeline or Ada or you face her wrath, which is a fearsome thing.” A small shudder caused Gail’s hair to ripple.

The street now seemed to be populated only by couples, and we were all casting long shadows across the square. I realized I’d soon have to start thinking about getting back to the Claremont.

We’d arrived at the Campus, in whose vestibule was a phone booth. She fumbled through her bag. “Do you have any change? I seem to be fresh out.”

I found a lone nickel in my pocket, which she dropped into the coin slot. It made a most satisfying ting. I was continuing to be impressed with Gail’s way with bells.

She dialed Information and asked, “Hello, operator? Could I please have the number of a Miss Adeline Head?” As Gail waited, she produced an eyebrow pencil from her bag. “You don’t? Oh, wait, you’re looking in Alameda County, she’s in San Francisco. Do you handle that too? She’s on Larkin Street—oh, and her first name might be listed as Ada or just the letter A . . .” She turned to me. “You have anything to write on, Ray?”

I gave her the paper wrapper from a stick of the gum I’d bought. Gail licked the pencil’s tip, tossed me a mischievous glance that instantly embarrassed her (and that I wasn’t going to forget for a long time), and scribbled a number on the inside of the wrapper. She thanked the operator, who hit whatever it is operators hit on their end of a connection that makes a coin telephone regurgitate a nickel. Gail retrieved the coin and, flipping the handset’s cradle, dropped the nickel into the slot once again and dialed the phone number.

“Hi Ada, it’s Gail,” she began, her expression immediately darkening. “Look, a friend of mine was at Treasure Island today and he said you didn’t show up. Did you think—?” Her shoulders dipped a little in acknowledgment. “Okay, but then why didn’t—?” Gail went silent and listened thoughtfully with widening eyes. “Really.”