"I wonder if that's why they hate us so?" he said, almost without thinking. "Whatever are you talking about?" But the question sounded lazy. "I mean the rest of the faculty, or most of them. Is it because we can do things like this?" She laughed. "So you're actually coming alive. We don't do things like this so very often, you know." He kept on with his idea. "It's a devilishly competitive and jealous life. The war, doing away with some of it, makes you more conscious of the rest. And competition in an institution can be nastier than any other, because it's so tight. Think so?" "I've lived with it for years," said Tansy, simply. "Of course, it's all very petty. But petty emotions can come to outweigh big ones. Their size is better suited to the human mind." He looked down at Hempnell, and tried to visualize the amount of ill will and jealousy he had inevitably accumulated for himself. He felt a slight chill creeping around. He realized where this train of thought was leading. The darker half of his mind loomed up ominously. "Here, philosopher," said Tansy, "have a slug." She was offering him a small silver flask. He recognized it. "I never dreamed you'd kept it all these years." "Uh-huh. Remember when I first offered you a drink from it? You were a trifle shocked, I believe. Though you carried a flask, too." "I took the drink." "Uh-huh. So take this one." It tasted like fire and spice. There were memories with it, memories of those crazy prohibition years, and of Gorham and New England. "Brandy?" "Greek style. Give me some." Before that flood of memories, the darker half of his mind receded, was washed under. He looked at Tansy's sleek hair and moon-shadowed eyes. Of course, she's a witch, he thought lightly. She's Lilith. Ishtar. He'd tell her so. "Do you remember the time," he said, "we slid down the bank to get away from the night watchman at Gorham? There would have been a magnificent scandal if he'd caught us." "Oh, yes, and the time--" * * * * * When they went down, the moon was an hour higher. He drove slowly. No need to imitate the sillier practices of the prohibition era. A truck chugged past him. "Two more weeks." Rot! Who'd he think he was, hearing voices? Joan of Arc? He felt hilarious. He wanted to tell Tansy all the ridiculous things he'd been imagining the last few days, so she could laugh at them, too. It would make a swell ghost story. There was a reason he shouldn't tell her, but it was an insignificant reason--part and parcel of this cramped, warped, overcautious Hempnell life they ought to break away from more often. So when they arrived in the living room, Tansy flopping down on the sofa, he began, "You know, Tansy, about this witch stuff. I want to tell you--"