Peter flushed into astonishment and anger. He felt as if a strange hand had suddenly drawn the curtain from the most secret corner of his being. He felt as though he had been publicly stripped. He drew himself tightly back into his seat. The curtain dropped, and the lights went up for an interval. People in the stalls talked and smiled. No flutter of misgiving troubled the marble breasts of the great ladies. Men looked as before into the eyes of their women. Nothing, it seemed, had happened. Peter was amazed--his brain on fire with vague phrases of contempt. His fingers shook in a passion of wrath as he gathered up his hat and coat. Missing his way, he went into the bar. It was crowded with white-fronted men, their hats set rakishly back, discussing with freedom and energy the quality of the entertainment. Nothing of what Peter had seen or felt seemed to have touched them. Suddenly Peter was greeted: "Hullo, Paragon!" The Hon. Freddie Dundoon was a Gamaliel man--one for whom Peter and the college generally had much contempt, an amiable fool, of good blood, but, as sometimes happens, of no manners or intelligence. Peter muttered a greeting and passed on. But he was not so easily to get away. Dundoon caught him by the arm. "You're not going?" he protested. "Yes, I am," said Peter, turning away his head. He did not like people who breathed into his face. "Stuff. Come and have a brandy and soda." "No, thanks." "What's the hurry?" Peter stood in bitter patience, too exasperated to speak. "Won't you really have a drink?" Dundoon persisted. "No, thanks," Peter wearily repeated. "Come home and see the mater. She's your sort. Books and all that." "Many thanks," said Peter more politely. "I'm afraid I can't." "Sorry you won't stop. I'd take you to Miss Beryl. Third stocking from the right." "Curse you. Let me get out of this." Peter wrenched his arm rudely away. He blundered into a pendulous fat man in the door, and turned to apologise. Dundoon was still looking after him, his jaw fallen in a vacant surprise. Peter thankfully breathed the cold pure air of the street. He walked at random. He tried to collect himself, to discover why he had felt so bitterly ashamed, so furiously angry. His young flesh was in arms. He had seen a travesty of something he felt was, in its reality, great and clean. His senses rebelled against the mockery to which they had been invited. Sex was coming to the full in Peter. It waited in his blood and brain. He was conscious in himself of a sleeping power, and conscious that evening of an attempt to degrade it. He shrank instinctively.