Closed Doors By Fred Nickson 37 FICTION The train was filled with old grads returning to the "greatest university" for the homecoming game. The boys were a pink, plump, shell-rimmed, back-slapping bunch as a whole, who addressed each other as "old sock" or "old dog," and drank a great many highballs, and filled the club car with their shouting. "Hy there, Slats old sock! How are you? . . . Say! Who remembers Swede Carlson? What is he doing now? . . . Well, well, well! Who'd ever think Bill would get married? Bill, ya dirty dog, where'd ya get her? . . . No, you don't say! ... Whose uncle died?" The girls seemed to be of two kinds. Those who were pink and plump, and those who were neither. There was one noticeable exception. She was much smaller than the rest, but not especially younger. The things about her which had youth were the purchasable things; the slanted hat she wore, the small high-heeled slippers, the sheer hose, the slim swagger sport suit. To see her was to wonder who she was. You wondered about her eyes, dreamily cynical; about her Mona Lisa smile; about her air of detached sophistication. You wondered . . . and then if you asked someone, you were told that she was the poet, Eve Destiny. Eve Destiny, known to the graduates of 1916 as Eva Lankam. She sat apart from the rest, gazing far, far off over the hazy purple mountains which framed the landscape. She was not one of the gang. She never had been. She never would be. Eva Lankam pressed her hand to her forehead. The noise, the heat, they were stifling. She rose and made her way to the drawing room, grateful for its privacy. How she hated those women out there. Cats! All of them. Back in the club car, the cats yawned and purred and prepared to pull apart the canary who dared to sing back at them. "The idea of a woman, her age, wearing a checked sport suit!" said Mrs. Livingston, nee Blanch Stewart, who in her single person was a social commotion, a perfect dreadnaught of a woman, looking for whom she might sink. Page 8 "Well, girls," said the woman on her right, "you remember Eva never did wear the accepted thing, or do it either, for that matter. I never could understand why she couldn't do what we all did." "Remember that time she came to the Psi Omicron party with her hair down her back, and how she never would wear any powder?" "I know. And the way she used to stay home and study was positively sickening! I suppose she finally made Phi Beta." Mrs. Howard Belnap, as upright as an old-fashioned piano, curled her nose in disgust. "I suppose so! Remember those shocking poems she used to write? They were absolutely lewd. That one about the 'metronomes of blood, the time beats of your sweet kisses'! And that one she called "Life." Why, it was positively sickening." Miss Ada Pierce gave a snort of disapproval. "Say, Blanche . . . Who did she go with? Yes, I know she didn't make a sorority. Of course, they wouldn't pledge anyone who wouldn't conform to accepted standards! I mean, which boys took her out?" "Don't you remember? That was another queer thing about her. She wouldn't go out. I know lots of the boys used to ask her. She was always good looking, but she never would go. I asked her why, once, but she only looked scornful, and said something about not being willing to play up to a fellow just for the sake of a date. I'm sure I don't know what prompted that." "She's changed quite a little, hasn't she? I mean in looks and dress. She still appears tolerant and amused at us, though." "Oh well, my dear. I fancy she thinks it's a becoming pose. But say, what's she doing now? She inherited quite a bit of money, I understand. But surely Eva wouldn't be satisfied if she wasn't working at something." "I don't know, I'm sure. We'll have to look and see how she signs the register. Say, who knows what the order of events is for tomorrow?" "I believe we're to visit the campus in the morning, have a luncheon at one, and dinner at eight." "Sounds good to me. Well, I've got to go and see what Herb's doing. He is the most neglectful hubby . . ." (Continued on Page 20) Scribulus Marge Tanner By Burnham