ABSTRACT
The small, single, garret-like room on the top floor of Jordan House in the Quadrangle to which I was assigned gave me the impression that I might very well have been one of the last persons accepted by Smith for its Class of 1948. Still, with its dormer windows, its sloping ceiling, and its window seat, it had a certain charm, especially after it had been decorated with custom-made chintz cushions and a matching chintz bedspread provided by my mother.
