"Oh," he said. "I saw you sitting alone, so I thought I'd join you."

"I always sit alone," she said, "I like to think while I eat."

"Oh," he said. "Me too. I mean, I always like to think while I eat."

Really?" she said. "That's incredible. Have some soup."

III

IN WHICH the Prospective Radcliffe Student has an Interview.

"An interview, although not required, is encouraged by the Committee on Admissions so that prospective students may see the College and ask their own questions...." Remember? We all knew what that meant: an interview is required, and make sure you come prepared with several of Your Own Questions, I cam prepared; it was a hot, sunny day early in the summer before senior year high school, and I was Prepared. We flew to Boston, my parents and I, for a quick Radcliffe interview, then rented a car and drove to Providence for an afternoon at Pembroke. I remember; I was wearing black and white, including those black fishnet stockings so popular then, and my feet were killing me. God knows how we walked on those stockings-I took them off by the time we got to Providence. But Radcliffe deserved the bset.

Getting to Radcliffe from Harvard Square was the first problem. We walked, my parents and I, for what seemed like miles, asking directions from dozens of long-haired girls on bicycles; we followed that goddamned brick wall down Garden St. only to get lost again. I now suspect my parents were as helpless as I: Harvard Square is a far cry from Long Island, still farther from the Bronx. But we made it (late); we made it to Radcliffe Yard, and collapsed in the waiting room of the Dean of Admissions. We made it to the Waiting Room and waited; we waited and thumbed through various pamphlets, Introducing Radcliffe to our nervous eyes.

The wait seemed long, endless; the Interview itself barely lasted five minutes. I was thoroughly Prepared, but they didn't even care, and even though they didn't care, I blew it.

My interviewer, a tall thin woman who looked the epitome of New England clam chowder, didn't smile. "Hello," she said, "What was your class rank? How were your boards?" My transcript was sitting right under her upwardly mobile nose, but I answered timidly.

"Well," she said, "that's very good, but everyone who applies here is very good. Don't get your hopes up. Any questions?"

Here it came; this is the part I was Prepared for-but I couldn't remember, all I could think of was one lone question-something about Some Sort of Special Program I had read about in the catalogue. I asked it.

"I think you're thinking of Pembroke, dear," she said. "We don't have that kind of a program here."

We smiled politely; she followed me out, smiled politely at my parents, and we went back to New York. That was the end of the Interview.

(The worst thing about the above is that it really happened.)

IV

A musical interlude:

Radcliffe, now we rise to greet thee,

Alma Mater, hail to thee!

All our hearts are one in singing

Of our love and loyalty.

We have learned to know each other,

In thy light, which clearly beams,

Thou hast been a kindly Mother,

Great fulfiller of our dreams.