It was over; and, Lord, what a party.

That molish little man who had previously peered out from a scotch-bottle and tortoise shell opaque to murmur, "Bacchanal, simply bacchanal," was asleep in a lump on the floor, draped in the silk standard of the Dominican Republic.

In the corner, bundled like wet clothes and crowned with a cookie plate, a boneless, burnt-browed young man passed one reverent paw across his navel and blessed it.

And a dead-white paste-faced fellow in a red-fringe turban swayed ever so easterly atop the coffee table, caressing a seltzer bottle and mumbling mystic incantations.

The sober (and somber) spirits of Mr. Phillips and Mr. Brooks frowned down from the dusty mantelpiece in wordless wrath.

It had been a good year for the Harvard International Council for World Unity and the Underprivileged --"integration" (in time for Spring) with Radcliffe; an almost-unanimous April election slate; a successful high school U.N. Day; and several major addresses on burning issues. They had a right to hang one on.

So the last Saturday night in April was ordained as a membership party by the new executives. It had begun at eight, and by midnight devoted idealists, dates, and the Dedicated Few were out of it.

"What a blast!" said a survivor, in tow toward Lowell House by a chemise-swathed chalky young maiden who looked more like a Hasty Pudding camp-follower than one of the Dedicated Few.

"Don't get me wrong, you understand," he remarked from the door. "This business is not all play. We've got a job to do--teach the people, promulgate the propaganda, foster good will. The world treads a tight-rope wire, and the blood of the body politic is watered with thin-skimmed and anemic apathy. We are the hypodermic needle."

The young lady inspected her seams.

"But there comes a time," he added, "when you just got to hang loose and let go, you know. When all the pamphleteering and speech-giving gets to be a pain--and the gears of understanding need a little lubrication." He chuckled. "Why, we've done more for camaraderie tonight than a year of bull sessions and gum-beating."

He gestured about the body-strewn room with a mild indulgence. "Most of 'em aren't used to drinking--more than a tumbler of sherry on cold afternoons. Why, our last big event was a tea for Krishna Menon, only Krishna Menon never showed--and tea, well, now I ask you..."

His brow darkened. "Mister, we may be foreign students, midwestern plains boys, and Bronx yoyos--wonks, if you will. We know we don't have much of a place in the clubrooms or at the billiard tables. But our place is here, worrying about the future, concerned about bombs and the men who push the buttons. You see, we're doing something. We care." He brushed away a tear.

"Daddybear," lisped his gun-moll, "ah'm getting cold."

"Then let's shag, cherie," he replied, and they ambled into the night.

Not really night, for already dawn perched silver-sandaled on the punch bowl. Mr. Phillips nodded in that sad, solemn way to Mr. Brooks. And the paste-faced fellow toppled from the coffee table, at rumpled, indignant peace with the new day.