The lights are dim around the huge horseshoe bar, and the many couples leaning together, heads filled with beer and good bourbon, make the room even darker. There is a dance later, at which no liquor is allowed.

"Is this your date? Are you going to the Refectory dance?"

"No, but she is."

"Hey--I think I'll pick up Mike beforehand. We said I'd pick him up on the way over."

"Who's Mike? Oh . . you mean your last year's roommate?"

"Yeah. He lives in the West Quad now."

"Oh. Okay. We'll meet you there."

The West Quadrangle is really two quadrangles, designed by the same architect who framed the Wriston Quad, but had less money at the time, and so it is much smaller than the former. Finished just this past Fall, it is the stronghold of the independents, and has two large, comfortably furnished lounges, with six smaller ones scattered throughout the building. It has the antiseptic appearance and smell of a hospital, and its brick structure and sparse courtyards make it look like an old geometric oasis in the middle of a broad desert. It has parties, too.

"Funny that not too many people have arrived yet. Oh, there's Bill and Barbara. You know them, don't you?"

"I don't think so. Were they here the last time I was?"

"I don't know . . . so many different people come to these parties every time; I guess you can't know most of them."

The quiet talk goes on.

A beer can rattles down the walk and a window is thrown open in the upper courtyard.

"Lollipop, lollipop, oh, lolly, lolly,

Oh Lollipop, lollipop,