And never a week went by that he didn’t wonder what his life would have been like if he’d married her.

They had met in their late twenties, when Peter Fallon, Harvard graduate student, was writing his dissertation on her famous old family. They had fallen in love as they unearthed the family scandals and a Revere tea set, then faced the legal mess they made in the process. She had moved in with him while he finished his dissertation. Then they had gone together to Iowa, where he spent two years teaching history at Southeast Iowa State. It was hard to say if he was unhappier with teaching than she was with Iowa, but she left him one cold January. She said she was going to Columbia to study journalism. Six months later, he left Iowa—and teaching—and started selling rare books.

They had kept in touch sporadically since then. They had followed each other’s careers and marriages. He subscribed to Travel Life magazine so that he could read her articles. She put her name on the mailing list of Fallon Antiquaria so that she could see what rare books he had for sale.

But talking to her now, especially when her husband answered the phone, was always more work than it was worth.

So he made a few other calls: two R’s who weren’t home, and a third who said, “Harvard has more money than God. I have less than a day laborer. Why should I give them anything?” Fair question.

Then Benedict popped up again. “An investment banker just gave me five thousand, Peter. Make that wine a Corton-Charlemagne.”

“It’s not over yet.”

Benedict’s eyes shifted to Evangeline’s phone number. “Dalton’s a New York plastic surgeon. Big money in East Side eyelifts.”

That did it. Fallon dialed her number.

“Hi. This is Evangeline.” It was a recording. Her voice had awakened Peter every day for four years, and it still hurt him to admit that even on a cheap answering machine, she sounded happier now than she had at the end of their time together.

“I’m on an assignment,” she said. “Leave me a message. I’ll get back. If the message is for Dr. Dalton, you can reach him at his office.”

Probably running around the south of France, checking out the gîtes for an article in some travel magazine, thought Peter. But he couldn’t just hang up, so he said, “Evangeline, this is Peter …Peter Fallon. We haven’t talked in what? Two years? Anyway … I’m calling from the Harvard College Fund. Looking for money. If you or that alumni husband of yours have any, I hope you’ll give some to Harvard… . And give me a call sometime. Bye.”

He was glad that was over. Worse than calling for a date.

Next on the list: his old pal Ridley Wedge Royce.

Harvard graduates often said they learned more in the dining halls than they ever did in the classrooms.