It’s 1967. Sandra Dee has just seated herself in the chair beside your desk. Being the douchecanoe you are, you adjust the angle of the mirror just a bit, and the reflection gives you what you wanted: an unobstructed view of Miss Dee’s grade-A legs.
Late last night I stumbled upon a studio still of something resembling this scene. Behold:
The prematurely orange fellow with the subtlety of a flying mallet is George Hamilton.
If you’d rather see her not harassed in person, there’s this:
Who’s that woman behind the curtain? I have no idea.