Mae had her next date with Bob the following Monday. It wasn’t a double date this time.
After the show, Bob said, “Shall we drop in somewhere for a drink?”
For some reason Mae shivered slightly. “Well, all right, but not wine. I’m off of wine. Say, have you seen Wally since last week?”
Bob shook his head. “Guess you’re right about wine. Wally can’t take it, either. Made him sick or something and he ran out quick, didn’t he? Hope he made the street in time.”
Mae dimpled at him. “You weren’t so sober yourself, Mr. Evans. Didn’t you try to pick a fight with him over some silly card tricks or something? Gee, that picture we saw was awful; I had a nightmare that night.”
He smiled. “What about?”
“About a—Gee, I don’t remember. Funny how real a dream can be, and still you can’t remember just what it was.”
Bob didn’t see Walter Beekman until one day, three weeks after the party, he dropped into the bookstore. It was a dull hour and Walter, alone in the store, was writing at a desk in the rear. “Hi, Wally. What you doing?”
Walter got up and then nodded toward the papers he’d been working on. “Thesis. This is my last year premed, and I’m majoring in psychology.”
Bob leaned negligently against the desk. “Psychology, huh?” he asked tolerantly. “What you writing about?”