Mr. H_ (his work was well known in Vermont) didn't believe in grades for art. We were given the grade of our average in school. At grading time I sat in his office while he paged through my portfolio. Without a word. "What is your grade average?" "B-." "Are you sure it is that high?" "Yes." I flushed. Gathered up my work. Fled. I want to shove my reviews down his throat. But he is dead.

Let Sid see what I had written. "Dorothy, as you are aware your old college has expressed an interest in buying one of your works. They are willing to spend quite a lot of money," he said.

In the center of the restaurant, metal trays were sunk in a long table. Warm Indian breads. Chicken curries redolent of far away countries. Hot climates and crowded streets. Our table beside a street level window. Watched people go by. Just below the campus. Berkeley.