The party booms around them. Howard stares at Miss Callendar, who is somehow outside it. She leans against the mantelpiece, her white hat shading solemn, dark brown eyes that look back at him. Behind her, over the mantelpiece, is a domed, round mirror; Howard sees that they are both reflected in it, on the tilt, portrayed at a foreshortened angle, as in some conscientious modern film. There is her dark head, capped with its white decorated hat, the nape of her neck, her tapering long blue back; there is himself, facing her in the adversary position, his economical, fierce-eyed features staring; beyond them both is a realm of space, and then the moving manikins of the party. ‘You were in a fight with the revolutionaries,’ says Howard. ‘That’s my trouble at parties,’ says Miss Callendar, ‘I get into fights.’ ‘Of course,’ says Howard, ‘for perfectly good reasons these kids don’t trust  anyone over thirty.’ ‘How old do you think I am?’ asks Miss Callendar. ‘I don’t know,’ says Howard, ‘you’re disguised by your clothes.’ ‘I’m twenty-four,’ she says. ‘Then you ought to be one of them,’ says Howard. ‘How old do are you?’ asks Miss Callendar. ‘I’m thirty-four,’ says Howard. ‘Oh, Dr Kirk,’ says Miss Callender, ‘then you oughtn’t.’ ‘Oh,’ says Howard, ‘there’s the also the question of right and wrong, good and bad. I choose them. They’re on the side of justice.’ ‘Well, I can understand that,’ says Miss Callendar. ‘Like so many middle-aged people, you’re naturally envious. All this youth charms you. I’m sure you’d allow it anything.’ Howard laughs; Miss Callendar says, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m rude.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says Howard. ‘For the same reason, I’d allow you anything.’ In the corner of his eye, Howard sees the movements of the party; hands are touching breasts, partners are transacting, couples are disappearing. ‘You would?’ says Miss Callendar. ‘I thought you were trying to make a rebel out of me.’ ‘I am,’ says Howard. ‘But what could I rebel about?’ ‘Everything,’ says Howard. ‘There’s repression and social injustice everywhere.’