"Well, I'm here."

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Armand, your roommate. What's your name?"

"Miss Fickett, Dean Rosovsky's receptionist," she replied.

"Oh, great, it's a triple," Armand exclaimed. "I'm sure we'll all get along swell. "Well, I guess I'd better go unpack."

Before the receptionist could protest, Armand had entered the dean's office. No one was there. "He must be at lunch," Armand thought.

Nothing the lack of a clothes closet and bureaus, Armand piled his belongings on top of Rosovsky's desk, shoving the papers and books strewn across it onto the floor. As he was replacing the tomes on Rosovsky's bookshelf, the dean walked in.

"Hey, roomie," Armand bubbled, extending his hand. "I'm Armand Linkmuller. How's it going?"

Ignoring Armand's proffered hand, the dean removed his pipe from his mouth.

"Are you sure you belong here, young man?" asked Rosovsky.

"Well, I don't know," said Armand, looking at the pipe. "I did request a non-smoker. But I'm sure we'll get along. The place is roomy enough. Just one question: where do we sleep?"

"We don't."

"Huh?"

"To be more precise," Rosovsky continued, "you don't--not here, anyway. I can if I want, of course, because I'm the dean and this is my office."

"Now, Dean, let's not get carried away. I mean if we're going to be roomies, we're going to have to share."