Oliver Barrett IV， a Harvard student from a wealthy WASP family， fell in love with Jennifer， a Radcliff music major， daughter of a pastry chef of Italian descent. Jennifer returned his love. The two of them started talking about marriage， thinking they were made for each other. A banker and a squeamish parent， Oliver Barrett III refused to give his blessing to the proposed alliance. Oliver and Jennifer thereupon went ahead on their own， contented with their "love in a cottage".

    We join the novel in Chapter 13， three years after Oliver married Jennifer regardless of his father's fierce opposition. One day， they received an invitation from Oliver's parents to the old man's sixtieth birthday party. Jennifer preferred accepting the invitation， regarding it as a good opportunity for a reconciliation between father and son. But Oliver wouldn't gibe it a thought. Thus the two of them had a violent quarrel…

    Love Story

    by Erich Segal CHAPTER 13

    Mr. And Mrs. Oliver Barrett III

    request the pleasure of your company

    at a dinner in celebration of

    Mr. Barrett's sixtieth birthday

    Saturday， the sixth of March

    at seven o'clock

    Dover House， Ipswich， Massachusetts

    R. S. V. P.

    "Well？" asked Jennifer.

    "Do you even have to ask？" I replied. I was in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival， a very important precedent in criminal law. Jenny was sort of waving the invitation to bug me.

    "I think it's about time， Oliver，" she said.

    "For what？"

    "For you know very well that，" she answered. "Does he have to crawl here on his hands and knees？"

    I kept working as she worked me over.

    "Ollie —— he's reaching out to you！"

    "Bullshit， Jenny. My mother addressed the envelope."

    "I thought you said you didn't look at it！" she sort of yelled.

    Okay， so I did glance at it earlier. Maybe it had slipped my mind. I was， after all， in the midst of abstracting The State v. Percival， and in the virtual shadow of exams. The point was she should have stopped haranguing me.

    "Ollie， think，" she said， her tone kind of pleading now. "Sixty goddamn years old. Nothing says he'll still be around when you're finally ready for the reconciliation."

    I informed Jenny in the simplest possible terms that there would never be a reconciliation and would she please let me continue my studying. She sat down quietly， squeezing herself onto a corner of the sofa where I had my feet. Although she didn't make a sound， I quickly became aware that she was looking at me very hard. I glanced up.

    "Someday，" she said， "when you're being bugged by Oliver V ——"

    "He won't be called Oliver， be sure of that！" I snapped at her. She didn't raise her voice， though she usually did when I did.

    "Listen， Ol， even if we name him Bozo the Clown that kid's still going to resent you because you were a big Harvard athlete. And by the time he's a freshman， you'll probably be in the Supreme Court！"

    I told her that our son would definitely not resent me. She then inquired how I could be so certain of that. I couldn't produce evidence. I mean， I simply knew our son would not resent me， I couldn't say precisely why. Jenny then remarked：

    "Your father loves you too， Oliver. Her loves you just the way you'll love Bozo. But you Barretts are so damn proud and competitive， you'll go through life thinking you hate each other."

    "If it weren't for you，" I said jokingly.

   "Yes，" she said.

    "The case is closed，" I said， being， after all， the husband and head of household. My eyes returned to The State v. Perival and Jenny got up. But then she remembered.

    "There's still the matter of the RSVP."

    I said that a Radcliffe music major could probably compose a nice little negative RSVP without professional guidance.

    "Listen， Oliver，" she said， "I've probably lied or cheated in my life. But I've never deliberately hurt anyone. I don't think I could."

    Really， at that moment she was only hurting me， so I asked her politely to handle the RSVP in whatever manner she wished， as long as the essence of the message was that we wouldn't show unless hell froze over. I returned once again to The State v. Percival.

    "What's the number？" I heard her say very softly. She was at the telephone.

    "Can't you just write a note？"

    "In a minute I'll lose my nerve. What's the number？"

    I told her and was instantly immersed in Percival's appeal to the Supreme Court. I was not listening to Jenny. That is， I tried not to. She was in the same room， after all.

    "Oh —— good evening， sir，" I heard her say.

    She had her hand over the mouthpiece.

    "Ollie， does it have to be negative？"

    The nod of my head indicated that it had to be， the wave of my hand indicated that she should hurry up.

    "I'm terribly sorry，" she said into the phone. "I mean， we're terribly sorry， sir…"

    We're！ Did she have to involve me in this？ And why can't she get to the point and hang up？

    "Oliver！"

    She had her hand on the mouthpiece again and was talking very loud.

    "He's wounded， Oliver！ Can you just sit there and let you father bleed？"

    Had she not been in such an emotional state， I could have explained once again that stones do not bleed. But she was very upset. And it was upsetting me too.

    "Oliver，" she pleaded， "could you just say a word？"

    To him？ She must be going out of her mind！

    "I mean， like just maybe 'hello'？" She was offering the phone to me. And trying not to cry.

    "I will never talk to him. Ever，" I said with perfect calm.

    And now she was crying. Nothing audible， but tears pouring down her face. And then she —— she begged.

    "For me， Oliver. I've never asked you for anything. Please."

    Three of us. There of us just standing （I somehow imagined my father being there as well） waiting for something. What？ For me？

    I couldn't do it.

    Didn't Jenny understand she was asking the impossible？ That I would have done absolutely anything else？ As I looked at the floor， shaking my head in adamant refusal and extreme discomfort， Jenny addressed me with a kind of whispered fury I had never heard from her：

    "You are a heartless bastard，' she said. And then