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have the enthusiasm.”
    â€œThen I must dance alone. In any event, there is wine to drink, and perhaps in the wine you will find enthusiasm.”
    â€œ In vino you’re supposed to find veritas ,” said Susie with sudden energy. “So let’s all drink.”
    She went back into the living room, poured herself a glass of wine, and took it to a long couch. Here sat John Thompson, the librarian, in murmured conversation with a generous blond woman who had been introduced simply as Lalu. She wore a black flannel skirt, a broad black patent-leather belt, a white jersey blouse. She was barefoot, and as she listened to John Thompson she wriggled her toes. Thompson appeared not to see Susie, who in contrast to Lalu seemed prim and demure.
    Mervyn replenished his own glass, then effaced himself in a corner. Susie evidently had put aside the thought of immediate departure and Mervyn was content to sit quietly. He had fallen into a mood which, in him, occasionally accompanied fatigue. It was a curious sensation, not unpleasant: detachment utter and complete. Events occurred as if seen through a lens. He surveyed the room. Susie sat decorously, intent on thoughts of her own. Beside her John Thompson leaned his barbered head close to the shoulder of the blond Lalu; his expression was one of placid contentment. As Mervyn watched, the librarian lazily gnawed at the blonde’s arm. Lalu inspected her bare toes, wriggling them in a sort of ritual agitation.
    A noisy altercation across the room attracted Mervyn’s attention: John Boce and John Viviano were in disagreement. Boce sat in a big black canvas campaign chair, knees apart, belly between, while Viviano strode back and forth like a nervous secretary bird. The subject under discussion appeared to be the definition of female beauty. The accountant rested his case upon the Iliad . “This woman who launched a thousand ships. Helen. Don’t tell me she was one of these concentration-camp types.”
    â€œElegance!” shouted the photographer. “Where is the elegance in these wads and masses of flesh? I seek the beauty of the nerves!”
    Harriet ranged herself earnestly beside Boce. “But seriously, Viviano, don’t you feel that ideals change? So far as we women are concerned, it’s unquestionably so. Certainly you can’t find the women Rubens painted attractive? Or Vermeer?”
    â€œRubens was a Dutchman,” sneered Viviano. “Venneer was no better.”
    â€œArt is universal,” said Harriet. She raised her glass in graceful gesture. “To Art!” She drained the glass.
    â€œBah!” growled Viviano. “‘Art’ is a word I never use. It has no meaning. It is a mass-produced toy for middle-aged females and culture-chasers to play with.”
    Boce said, “I’ll tell you for sure that when I get hold of a woman, I want to feel some meat. I’ve seen pictures in the fashion magazines where the women look as if they’d come up out of a drain.”
    That seemed to end the argument.
    Harriet had gone to join Oleg; he was loading the hi-fi. Pipes and violins burst out in the room. Oleg put his hands over his head and began to perform some sort of Slavic jig. Harriet studiously tried to follow him, but after a few tentative hops and kicks she went to pour herself more wine.
    Mervyn glanced toward Susie, found her eyes on him. She looked away before he could decide the nature of her expression.
    Oleg Malinski tired of his dance. He turned down the music. “One cannot dance alone. We will drink wine and talk.”
    â€œI have already talked,” said Viviano. “I have also drunk your wine. Tomorrow I must dress and photograph four beautiful women.”
    â€œYou will need a clear head, undoubtedly,” said Oleg.
    The photographer made a flamboyant gesture. “You may think that this is unalloyed delight. I assure you that serious problems arise. Only a man can