The speaker stood a few moments with his speech in his hand, inclined his head politely to applause, and withdrew. In the eyes of the world he was a personality—fearless, virtuous, remote—and the ovation continued a little longer without reference to the content of the speech, although some staff members were already filing out and others had begun their complaints while still applauding.

“Scarcely a mention of the proposed change in retirement age.” A burly Belgian youth from Forms Control gave a last angry clap as he moved into the aisle. “And not a word about longevity increments.” This he said quite fiercely to a Canadian woman, Clelia Kingslake, who had a modest but unique reputation for submitting reports in advance of deadlines.

“That might come under the pension review,” she suggested.

“He would have said so. It’s just a move to hold the whole thing over for another year.” He held the heavy glass exit door for her. The vast hallway into which they passed was brightly lit, and thickly carpeted in a golf-links green. “And what in God’s name was all that about flowers?”

They were joined by Mr. Matta from Economic Cooperation. “Yes, what was that?” Mr. Matta, from the Punjab, had a high lilting voice like a Welshman’s and often omitted the article. “Has D.-G. gone off his head, I wonder?”

A group passed them heading for the elevators. Someone said violently, “… not even on the agenda!”

When they arrived at the escalator leading to the cafeteria, Miss Kingslake asked the two men, “Are you coming up for tea?”

“Maybe later,” said the Belgian boy. “Must go back to the office and see what’s come in with the afternoon distribution.”

“Back to the shop, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Matta from Economic Cooperation. “Our workload has reached the point of boiling.”

Clelia Kingslake, who had graying hair and a light-gray dress, got on the moving stair alone and went up to the cafeteria.

The cafeteria was full. It usually was—and invariably after a staff meeting. Miss Kingslake joined the queue and when her turn came took a tray from the rack and a fork and spoon from the row of metal boxes. First there was a delay (someone ahead was buying containers of coffee for an entire office—a breach of good faith), and then the line moved along so quickly that she found herself at the cake before she had decided what to have. She would have preferred a single piece of bread with jam, but she had passed the butter and it would have been unthinkable to go back for it. So she took down from the glass shelf what seemed to be the largest piece of cake there. A sweet-faced Spanish woman at the tea counter fixed her up with a cup of boiling water and a tea-bag, and she paid.