With a flick of his tails, he stepped into the Ballroom. Past him foxtrotted five hundred League of Nation delegates, some tall, some ridiculously short; all jiggling merrily to a blaring cacophony from the room's far end. Seventy-five feminine representatives blossomed against the wall, some hiding their disappointment, with pale powdered smirks, other bolder ones occasionally stepping out to cut in on a dancing couple.

He seized a scarlet evening dress from the "Stag Line," whirled it out on the floor. Her sibilant voice was gushing in his ear. "Y'know, I'm a delegate from Latvia, but I haven't been to a single meeting. I've been up in a fellow's room in the Law School since Thursday afternoon." A blank-faced silver-spangled gown cut in. He executed a delicate dip.

An hour later, tongue in cheek, he was fibbing to a comely girl with a pert purple hat. "I'm a delegate from Andorra," he said. She looked at him blankly. "It's in the Pyrenees," he explained.

"What are they?" she asked. He shuddered, thought of Mary Lyon, Julia Ward Howe.

Divested of his shirt, he lay for a moment on his bed high under the eaves. He pondered the remarkable similarity between the Model League of Nations and the Dartmouth Winter Carnival.