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harsh voice. He stopped dramatically in midstride as Mervyn entered, nodded a regal quarter of an inch, and continued. Harriet Brill leaned languidly against a wall, wearing a yellow-green-and-red Benares print skirt, a long-sleeved black jersey blouse and brass hoop earrings four inches in diameter.
    The couch was occupied by a couple wearing the uneasy expressions of people who find themselves trapped in the grizzly pit at the zoo; the man was a physicist answering to the name of Mike, and the woman, Charlotte, was his wife. Mervyn vaguely gathered that they were connected with the university. The preadvertised Blake Callahan turned out to be a little man wearing big black-rimmed glasses, his wife, Estelle, a huge woman in a tight brown-satin dress; they sat in two of Boce’s orange canvas sling chairs. Just who they were Mervyn did not learn; his host forgot to follow through.
    Susie, in slacks and sweater—both her favorite gray—sat on the couch beside Mike the physicist. She was being vivacious tonight, an aspect of her personality Mervyn had not suspected. Susie was a continual surprise. The slacks exhibited her slight, supple figure to its optimum; the softness of her hair gave her a softer, more feminine look than usual. Mervyn sat down beside her; she gave him a cryptic side glance, started to say something, then changed her mind.
    Mervyn slumped back on the couch, relieved not to have to make small talk. John Viviano, in any event, left him little choice. The fashion photographer held forth with majestic vehemence, marching back and forth, his hands flying about.
    â€œIt is not in the nature of the human animal,” declared Viviano. “It is unnatural. We live in an unnatural age. Consider Felis leo . Who wears the mane? The lion, not the lioness. Consider the Siamese fish. Who carries the magnificent fins? Again the male. And the male iguana with his ruff. Spectacular! Today everything is upside down.”
    He gestured toward his black slacks and tan hound’s-tooth jacket. “Observe me. I am the unobtrusive one.” He pointed a long, tense forefinger at Harriet. “And she, she is the lion, the Siamese fish, the male iguana! Is it a wonder the mental hospitals are full? Sad to relate, I contribute to the madness. It is I who bedizen these women, these cannibals, when I should better give them a bucket and mop and say, ‘Here, woman, wash the floor.’ But such is the case.”
    Harriet Brill, who had been making a series of fretful gestures, at last was able to interrupt. “I certainly don’t think you’re making a fair case.”
    Viviano whirled like a dancer. “I am now unfair?”
    â€œYou are, Viviano. People dress to express their personalities. Just because you’re repressed—”
    â€œI am now repressed, Brill?”
    â€œYou are!”
    The little man named Blake Callahan said in a voice surprisingly deep, “I have an idea that should satisfy everyone. As I see it, John Viviano resents the neutrality of his clothing, while Harriet correctly attacks his pose of masculine martyrdom. The controversy can easily be resolved. Why don’t you two simply exchange clothes? Viviano will then be clad in garments colorful enough, God knows, for any strutting male, while Harriet, in his sober costume—sharing his virtu , so to speak—will be assured that his antifeminism is merely a polemic device.”
    Harriet and Viviano both spoke at once, in voices equally passionate. Mervyn turned to Susie. “Who is Blake Callahan?”
    â€œSomething to do with the university press.”
    Charlotte leaned across her physicist-husband, Mike. “I didn’t see Mary at the gym today, Susie. We’re keeping the class going, you know, during summer session and intersession both.”
    Mervyn remembered now that Mary had been studying fencing; Charlotte must be the instructor. John Boce lumbered over with a highball for