Marriage and courtship got special attention. With Bronstein grinning
delightedly, he drew detailed modern parallels to marriage by purchase,
marriage by capture, and symbolic marriage to a deity. He showed that
trial marriage is no mere modern conception but a well-established
ancient custom, successfully practiced by the Polynesians and others. At this point he became aware of a beet-red, angry face toward the back
of the room--that of Gracine Pollard, daughter of Randolph Pollard,
president of Hempnell College. She glared at him outragedly, pointedly
ignoring the interest taken by the neighboring students in her blushes. Automatically it occurred to him, "Now I suppose the little neurotic
will go yammering to mamma that Professor Saylor is advocating free
love." He shrugged the idea aside and continued the discussion without
modification. The buzzer cut it short. But he was left feeling irritated with himself, and only half listened
to the enthusiastic comments and questions of Bronstein and a couple of
others. Back at the office he found a note from Harold Gunnison, the dean of
men, asking for an interview. Having the next hour free, he set out
across the quadrangle for the Administration Building, Bronstein still
tagging along to expound some interesting theory of his own. But Norman was wondering why he had let himself go. Admittedly, some
of his remarks had been a trifle raw. He had long ago adjusted his
classroom behavior to Hempnell standards, without losing intellectual
integrity, and this ill-advised though trivial deviation bothered him. *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Carr swept by him without a word, her face slightly averted,
cutting him cold. A moment later he realized the explanation. In his
abstraction, he had lighted a cigarette. Moreover, Bronstein, obviously
delighted at faculty infraction of a firmly established Hempnell taboo,
had followed suit. He frowned but continued to smoke. Evidently the events of the previous
night had disturbed his mind more than he had realized. He ground out
the butt on the steps of the Administration Building. In the doorway to the outer office he collided with the stylishly stout
form of Mrs. Gunnison. "Lucky I had a good hold on my camera," she grumbled, as he stooped to
recover her bulging handbag. "I'd hate to try to replace a lens these
days." Then brushing back an untidy wisp of reddish hair from her
forehead, "You look worried. How's Tansy?" He answered briefly, sliding past her. Now there was a woman who really
ought to be a witch. Sloppy, expensive clothes; bossy, snobbish, and
gruff; good-humored in a beefy fashion, but capable of riding roughshod
over anyone else's desires. The only person in whose presence her
husband's authority seemed a trifle ridiculous. Harold Gunnison cut short a telephone call, and motioned him to come in
and shut the door. "Norm," Gunnison began, scowling, "this is a pretty delicate matter." Norman became attentive. When Harold Gunnison said something was a
delicate matter, unlike Thompson, he really meant it. They played golf
and squash together, and got on pretty well. He braced himself to hear an account of eccentric, indiscreet, or
even criminal behavior on the part of Tansy. That suddenly seemed the
obvious explanation. "You have a girl from the Student Employment Agency working for you? A
Margaret van Nice?" Norman nodded. "A rather quiet kid. Does mimeographing." "Well, a little while ago, she threw an hysterical fit in Mrs. Carr's
office. Claimed that you had seduced her. Mrs. Carr immediately dumped
the whole business in my lap." "Well?" said Norman. Gunnison frowned and cocked an eye at him. "Things like this sometimes
really happen," he muttered. "Sure," Norman replied. "But not this time." "Of course. I had to ask." "Sure. There _was_ opportunity though. We worked late several
nights over at Morton, editing stuff." Gunnison reached for a folder. "On a chance, I got out her neurotic
index. She ranks way up near the top. A regular bundle of complexes. We'll just have to handle it smoothly." "I'll want to hear her accuse me," said Norman. "Soon as possible." "Of course. I've arranged for a meeting at Mrs. Carr's office. Four
o'clock this afternoon. Meantime she's seeing the college physician. That should sober her up." "Four o'clock," repeated Norman, standing up. "You'll be there?" "Certainly. I'm sorry about this whole business, Norm. Frankly, I think
Mrs. Carr botched it. Got panicky. She's a pretty old lady." In the outer office he stopped to glance at a small display case of
items concerned with Gunnison's work in physical chemistry. The present
display was of Prince Rupert drops and other high-tension oddities. It
occurred to him that Hempnell was something like a Prince Rupert drop. Hit the main body with a hammer and you only jarred your hand. But
flick with a fingernail the delicate filament in which the drop ended,
and it would explode in your face. Fanciful. He glanced at the other objects, among them a tiny mirror, which, the
legend explained, would fly to powder at the slightest scratch or
sudden change in temperature. Yet it wasn't so fanciful, when you got to thinking about it. Any
highly organized, complex, somewhat artificial institution, such as a
college, tends to develop dangerous weaknesses. And the same would be
true of a person or a career. Flick the delicate spot in the mind of
a neurotic girl, and she would explode with wild accusations. Or take
a saner person, like himself. Suppose someone should be studying him
secretly, looking for the vulnerable filament, finger casually poised
to flick--

But that was really getting fanciful. *       *       *       *       *

Coming out of their eleven-o'clock classes, Hervey Sawtelle buttonholed
him. Hervey Sawtelle resembled an unfriendly caricature of a college
professor. Sometimes he carried two brief cases, and he was usually on
his way to a committee meeting. Routine worries chased themselves up
and down his nervous face. But at the moment he was in the grip of one of his petty excitements. "Say, Norman, the most interesting thing! I was down in the stacks this
morning, and I happened to pull out an old doctor's thesis--1930--by
someone I never heard of--with the title 'Superstition and Neurosis.'" He produced a bound, typewritten manuscript that looked as if it had
aged without ever being opened. "Almost the same as your 'Parallelisms
in Superstition and Neurosis.' An odd coincidence, eh? I'm going to
look it over tonight." They were hurrying together toward the dining hall down a walk flooded
with jabbering, laughing students. Norman studied Sawtelle's face
covertly. Surely the fool must remember that his "Parallelisms" had
been published in 1931, giving an ugly suggestion of plagiarism. But
Sawtelle's nervous, toothy grin was without guile.