the ranks of the chaperones. They walked with their hips, and used overpowering perfume, and talked in low tones about Love. They gave the impression of being divertingly naughty, but somehow you never liked them well enough to bother to find out whether or not they really were.
There were the Mouse girls. Small and ineffective and drab, and always very much embarrassed. They jumped when you spoke to them. Jock had written an essay on them once, which he ended with this telling stroke: "I think they must be the girls who eventually marry the men who wear white linen neckties."
There were the Too-Darn-Bright girls. Phi Beta Kappa keys and Ground Gripper shoes: Wrinkles in their foreheads at twenty-five. Terrible clothes, and a striding gait, and eyeglasses. They knew what the Einstein theory was about, and invariably led you in dancing.
Another group he had dubbed the Bull girls. They kept you in touch with all the other colleges. "Great party at New Haven last week" . . . "I was down at Princeton the week before" . . . "the captain of the football team at Michigan has invited me," etc., etc. Jock loathed the Bull girls with a very special loathing, and frequently told them to their indignation that he didn't believe a word they said.
Then there were the Soft girls. Like Molly. You were apt to think you were fond of them at first, but later you knew you were not and could never be. They were so easy. They made such utter asses of themselves.
And lastly, there were The girls. The regular girls. They were equally satisfactory on a dance floor, on a tennis court, on the links, anywhere. They had happy dispositions and a smart come-back to everything you
