Dwight Schrute was feeling righteously victorious. After his (his!) intervention the night before on Jim Halpert’s behalf (a circumstance he felt unlikely to repeat, but which, on the whole, he considered his duty—Jim was annoying and infantile at times, but there was good matter there, if he would settle down and stop being frivolous, and Roy Anderson was a ridiculous idiot) Angela Martin had so unbent as to allow him not only to escort her home but to hand her in to her apartments with his best wishes for a good night’s rest! The very thought that she would allow him to refer so nearly indecorously to a set of circumstances which must, inevitably, involve her presence in her private bed was itself an unexpected delight, and the fact that she had only complained once on the walk to her rooms that he had not secured a chaperon for their walk was a sure sign that she was far from indifferent to him. He had awoken the morning with a spring in his step and a sense of triumph in his bosom, and he had continued so while doing his day to day activities around the Colonel’s home.

However, this sense of goodwill was swiftly eroded when he ran into the Colonel hurrying along the corridor and learned from him that he, not Dwight, had been entrusted with the responsibility of making sure that Roy Anderson had been expelled from the house. He was instantly offended that Jim and Pam (and why was Jim there? He didn’t live or work with the Colonel) had apparently not taken into account his own quite excellent credentials—after all, had he not been the one to save Jim from Roy the night before? Was not he, Dwight K. Schrute, a known master of the blade, having passed rigourous testing in His Majesty’s Army? Had he not fought Frogs and Dagoes for His Majesty on the fields of France—or at least, trained to do so, although he had never properly been given the opportunity to ship out? He was so focused on expressing to them both his indignation that they had given this important duty to Michael that he did not, at first, register the indecent behaviour that was on view before him as he burst into the small parlor. It took him a good minute to realise that the parties in question were not going to notice him on their own, and the only words he could come out with to express his outrage at their actions was to squeal (he would have chosen a different verb) “Stop kissing!”

While this technically had the effect that he had requested, it nevertheless left much to be desired, as the two objects of his dual outrage ceased their amourous encounter only to laugh at him while continuing to cling to one another. He observed into the teeth of their laughter that he saw nothing humorous in the situation, and that furthermore he had thought better of Mr. Halpert than to take advantage of an engaged woman. He was quite flustered to hear the engaged woman in question snort most indecorously at this description, and he looked to her partner, the recently-devalued Mr. Halpert, for an explanation. Unfortunately, he was too busy turning nearly purple with hilarity to answer.

At last Pam took pity on Dwight, who looked to her eye quite like a chicken who had just discovered for the first time what happened to all the eggs that had been removed from under her over all the years.

“Oh, Lieutenant, it’s quite alright.”

“How can it be alright? You are engaged, Miss Beesly.”

“Yes, but I’m engaged to Jim.”

“But Mr. Anderson…”

“Is well aware of the situation, Lieutenant. Would you care to help the Colonel escort him out for us? We really could use your help.”

Thus solaced, he took his leave of them and ran down the hall crying “Michael!” This went unnoticed by the couple, who resumed their previous occupation without hesitation.