Peter played the part of a guest. “I think so. Yes. By a comfortable margin.”

  “I think I’m in favor of it, properly amended,” said Blaise, still staring at the door through which his daughter had passed. Watching his father, Peter realized to what extent Enid had outraged male comity. Blaise, aroused, was merciless, and if he chose to be punitive there would be no one to help Enid except Clay, who would not, and Frederika, who could not. No one will come to her aid except me, thought Peter, taking a mint from the nearest silver plate; through bitter chocolate the mint stung. Blaise said that he would personally write an editorial, endorsing H.R. 1776, but with suitable amendments because “We don’t want Franklin giving away the whole country, do we?”

  “No,” said his son. “We don’t.”

  III

  Burden sat at his desk in the Senate Chamber, holding in his hand H.R. 1776. The roll was being called. Voting on the bill had begun early. The galleries were packed. Just above him sat Kitty and Clay while Blaise Sanford presided imperially over the press box. Even the most frivolous of the Senators was aware that this was an important moment. Faces were grave, voices solemn as the “Ayes” and the “Nays” rang out in the green-lit Chamber.

  It had been a discouraging month for the isolationists. One outspoken Senator had not helped the cause by accusing the President of wanting to “plow under every fourth American boy.” On the other hand, the cause of intervention had not been much helped by the insouciant testimony of Wendell Willkie who, explaining his sudden conversion to aid for England, referred to his recent speeches denouncing the New Deal warmongers as “campaign oratory.”

  Nevertheless the bill which had been drafted at the Treasury and given to the majority leader of each House to introduce was certain to pass. Helplessly, the American First Committee raged. Important hostesses spoke bitterly of secret alliances between Roosevelt and the British. Catholic priests declared that Hitler was, after all, the last stout shield against Stalin, the Antichrist. But to no avail. The bill would pass.

  “Mr. Clapper.” They were approaching the “D’s.” Burden thought for a moment of the consternation in the Chamber were he to vote “Aye.” He would make the headlines but lose the coming election, even though he suspected that at heart the citizens of his state were not so isolationist as their Congressional delegation. The people tended to be unreliable on issues they did not ordinarily think much about. Although they disliked Europe on principle, a few newspaper stories about the rape of Belgian nuns and they would want to stand up to the bully.

  “Mr. Chavez.”

  No, Burden could not vote “Aye.” He was too closely identified with the isolationists. Yet, in a way, he wanted the British to win and Hitler to fail—unlike certain of his colleagues who hated England and secretly supported Hitler for reasons that did not bear close scrutiny. At the most Burden had wanted to amend the bill, to limit the President’s power to give away arms and materials. But his amendment had failed and he was conscious of having played no significant part in the great debate. A year ago, he was the President’s conservative successor, courted by all. Now he was one of ninety-six Senators. Suddenly in need of solace, he looked up at Kitty who gave him a little wave.

  But there was no disguising the fact that at a time when he should be leading the Senate, he was not. Of course, no one else was either. The day before the Bill was to be presented to Congress, he had gone to the White House with a group of Congressional leaders. Not once during the meeting was Burden consulted. Except for Senator Barkley, who talked political strategy, the others were as silent and acquiescent as he.

  At the end of the meeting Burden shook the President’s huge hand and said, “I had a splendid time in Chicago.” The President looked at him blankly. Burden could not resist a twist to the screw. “Mr. Wallace was an excellent choice, not popular perhaps but I’m sure what you had in mind all along.”

  The President was saved by a Senator from Texas who made him vow solemnly that the battleship Texas would never be given to the British. The President so swore.

  Burden had, of course, been outmaneuvered at Chicago by the President. Once the first shock had passed, he rather admired the way in which it had been done. In a private meeting at the White House, the President had been friendly, apparently candid, entirely plausible. In so many words he had said that taking into account the importance and restiveness of the conservative wing of the party, his running mate would almost certainly be a conservative. The President had mentioned several possible choices, of whom the first was Burden, who fell crashing into the sort of trap he himself was so expert at laying for others: seeming to promise favors he had no intention of bestowing in order to keep the would-be recipient in a cordial and optimistic frame of mind. Having left the meeting convinced that he would be selected Vice President, Burden had not pressed his own campaign for the Presidency. If he had, he might seriously have hurt the President at the convention and dramatized the split between Left and Right. But he had done nothing, just as the President wanted. Thinking of that day in the Blackstone Hotel when he had heard the news on the radio, Burden’s blood pressure rose so that he could hardly breathe. Fortunately, at that instant the clerk called his name and he shouted “Nay,” relieving the pressure in his throat and evoking, as reward for vehemence, applause from the gallery. A small recognition was better than none.

  The final vote was sixty in favor of Lend-Lease to thirty-one opposed. The President had won again.

  The day was bright but chilly. Spring was late. Ordinarily by March, daffodils and forsythia would be in bloom. But this year the winter had lasted longer than usual. The lawns and gardens of the Capitol were brown and bleak. With Clay beside him, Burden made his way to the Senate Office Building. The anti-Nazi, pro-British pickets had all gone home, and only the America First banners were still forlornly displayed by angry youths and well-dressed matrons in cloth coats.

  “Pretty much what I predicted,” said Burden.

  “We never had a chance.” Clay was perfunctory. Burden suspected him of wanting America to join the war. None of the young men knew what modern war was like. He did. As a new Senator, he had toured the battlefields of France and seen corpses rotting in the mud and dangling from barbed wire; he had heard shells whistle and explode; he had smelled poison gas. It was not like Shiloh where a man with a gun could fight for his honor on equal terms with another man so armed and so inspired. It was not the same thing now. Not at all.

  An America Firster waved a placard angrily in Burden’s face. “I’m Senator Day.” Burden smiled pleasantly, hoping the youth would realize that they were allies.

  “It’s you Jew bastards who want a war!” shouted the zealot.

  “Oh, dear.” Burden hurried away, followed by the amused Clay. “Heaven protect us from our admirers.”

  Not until they were in Burden’s inner office, with Mrs. Blaine as buffer between them and the mob of reporters wanting statements and partisans wanting comfort, did Burden at last summon up the nerve to say what he had wanted to say all week. Standing now at the bust of Cicero, holding the New York Times in his hands as though it contained notes for a speech, he said, “Is it true that Enid has left you?”

  Clay’s answer was prompt. “No. She’s gone to New York for a few weeks, to visit friends. That’s all.”

  Burden was relieved despite the fact that he knew he was not entirely above enjoying the misfortunes of those he loved. He put down the newspaper and turned from Cicero to Clay who now sat on the edge of the desk, balancing a letter opener as though it were a dagger. “I’m glad. But you should do something to stop the rumors.”

  “What are they?”

  “That you…” Burden was embarrassed. He was not one to discuss sexual matters with anyone, particularly another man. “…are having an affair with a girl and that Enid caught you flagrante delicto, as it were.”

  Clay’s expression was stony. “Who is the girl supposed to be?”

  “A Brazilian, I believe. A diplomat’s wife. Look, I’m only repeating what I’ve heard and if I’ve heard it everyone’s heard it because I don’t exactly move in…youthful circles, or amongst embassies.” The “amongst” rather pleased him, suggested a courtly old-fashioned statesman with a face like Emerson and the habits of a saint.

  “Well, it’s not true.” Clay paused, as though pondering what to say. Burden took it for granted that he was lying. “But that doesn’t help, does it? Truth has nothing to do with reputation, and that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  Burden nodded. “You’re going to have a tough fight. If Enid wants to make trouble, she can lose you the election.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know that.” Clay looked suddenly wretched, and young.

  Burden, wanting to be compassionate, was harsh.

  “The family is sacred out there on the hustings, particularly in your district with all those wild-eyed Baptists, wallowing in the thought of sin. You’re going to have to run as a good clean family man.”

  “Is it worth it?” A cry from the heart, but the heart lies, too, thought Burden, who said, “Of course it’s worth it. What about Blaise?”

  “We seem to be on good terms. He even asked me to Laurel House for dinner.”

  “Did you talk to him about the election?”

  Clay nodded. “He’s interested. Or so he says.”

  “But if Enid should tell him about your indiscretion…”

  “I think she has told him.”

  “And he’s said nothing?”

  “Not to me. For some reason, he seems angry at her.”

  “A strange man. If I were you…” Burden paused. He was reluctant to give advice, particularly good advice, since this was the sort most resented. “…I should cultivate your father-in-law. And apologize to Enid.”

  “Apologize?” Clay looked at him coldly.

  “You want her to divorce you?”

  Clay did not answer.

  “Of course you don’t. Certainly not now when you’re just beginning.”

  “I seem to be in a trap.”

  Burden managed not to say that the trap was of Clay’s own devising. Any married man who brought a girl to his house was a fool. He wondered if perhaps he had overestimated Clay. But then, aware of the other’s wretchedness, he was gentle. “When in doubt, do nothing. I’m sure if Blaise is on your side, Enid will come around. After all, there is the child.” That was what one always said, thought Burden, who as a lawyer knew that the welfare of children was the first weapon and the last consideration in any power struggle between parents.

  Then Burden gave Clay instructions: he was to meet a pair of constituents at Union Station and escort them to the house in Rock Creek Park, where Kitty would take over. He would join them no later than six o’clock. “Now I’m off to the doctor.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  Burden, who had never felt better, could not resist an enigmatic smile. “Blood pressure, too much sugar, hardening arteries, nothing more than the usual pleasures of being sixty.” He waved goodbye. As he left the office, he remembered ever so slightly to shuffle.

  Once in the street, Burden walked briskly to the nearest taxi stand and gave the driver an address in Georgetown. He felt extraordinarily elated, thanks to the cool March day, the political hopes deferred but still alive, and the sense of a body still capable of taking and giving pleasure, even though his blood pressure was high and his arteries probably hardening.

  Whistling tonelessly (he had no ear for music), Burden paid the driver, tipping him well. “Thanks, Senator.” Usually he was pleased at being recognized, but not today. Nevertheless he tapped the man’s arm affectionately, vowing to himself that next time he would give a different address and then walk to the house before which he now stood: eighteenth century rose-brick, with shutters and classic front door newly painted black. After looking first to left and right, Burden walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. A white-jacketed Negro butler admitted him, smiling broadly, happy to see Senator.

  Burden followed the butler up the staircase to the second floor where he was shown into a paneled study whose shelves were filled with rather too many leather-bound books. A fire burned in the Adam fireplace. Before it, a table was set for tea. The effect was rich and careful; somewhat too careful for Burden’s taste, used as he was to Kitty’s haphazard arrangements.

  She entered the room, slightly breathless, arms outstretched. “My dear!” she exclaimed in her careful voice from which almost all source of origin had been removed. “You are early. No, on time. On the dot. And I’m late.” She kissed his cheek; he responded to the scent she wore. Yes, today everything would work properly. He was certain of that, aroused as always by her manner (attentive if careful) and her figure (well and carefully made). Best of all, he liked her paleness. Either she wore no makeup or what she did wear was so discreetly applied that she seemed like…like a camellia, a word which unexpectedly conjured up the image of a bright pink flower. But of course there were also white camellias.

  “Do sit down. Let’s have our tea.” Burden sat in his usual place on the sofa beside the fire. She sat next to him, poured tea and knew without asking one lump or two, milk or lemon. For a year they had known a perfect if occasional intimacy. Occasional because they thought it best only to meet when her husband was not in the city; though the husband was indifferent, Burden preferred to have his tea secure in the knowledge that they would not be interrupted.

  They spoke fondly of the absent. “He’s in Jersey City today. At the other emporium.” She stressed each syllable of the word “emporium,” simultaneously mocking and emphasizing the source of her considerable wealth. The husband was indeed a merchant prince, and Burden was impressed by him. Fortunately the prince worshiped the princess and allowed her every freedom, knowing that she would never compromise or embarrass him; and he was right. She was superbly shrewd. Only the most malicious of Washington ladies would have interpreted these occasional afternoon meetings in Georgetown as anything but an open friendship between a would-be lady of fashion and a famous Senator of known discretion. At worst their meetings might be thought political. It was a useful thing for a shopkeeper to be able, through his wife, to influence a Senator who rather carelessly governed the District of Columbia through a minor Senate committee of which he was, he admitted, without pride, the altogether too indolent chairman, much criticized by civic organizations. Happily, whenever they met at tea, no mention was ever made of such knotty problems as home rule for the District or the sales tax. Only great world issues were threshed out between the watercress sandwiches, carefully rolled, and the chocolate-covered leaves of pastry from Hubert’s.

  “What a blow it must have been to you, the final vote!” She looked at him tenderly, narrow eyes like an icon gleaming.

  “I expected it. We never really had a chance. I was counting on being able to amend the bill, not give Franklin such a completely free hand to play at being Santa Claus. But…” he shrugged.

  “On the other hand, I am glad, in a way, you know, about helping England.” He adored her at that moment. Her diffidence was such a contrast to the usual Washington lady who made speeches when she disagreed with a Senator’s politics. But not his mistress. She was apologetic. Quite suddenly he kissed her cheek, almost losing his balance for in moving toward her, he slipped into the trough between the thick cushions. Luckily the teacup did not spill.

  “You are…” He wanted to give her a compliment but his heart was beating so rapidly from the narrow escape that he could think of nothing suitably elaborate and so he said, “looking so well today.” Then, to compensate, he took her hand and kissed it, as earnest of what was to come. He was still amazed at having found so late in life something so profoundly satisfying. More to the point, at a time when he thought himself altogether free of the demands of the flesh, he had become like a boy again, or almost.

  Lovingly, on cue, she recalled their first meeting. How he had impressed her! For his part, he could not recall when he first met her. It had seemed to him that she had always been very much around town. Then one day, shortly before the Chicago convention, she had asked him to tea. Tired as he was and distracted by all the confused maneuvering for the Vice Presidency, he had joined her in the rose garden at the back of the house and after drinking iced tea full of mint, they almost became lovers.

  He frowned slightly, biting down very hard on a cucumber sandwich. At first he had been embarrassed. But her tactfulness had saved the day. She had been, in every sense, marvelous. Since then their encounters had been a bit like Russian roulette. Neither ever knew whether or not he would be capable of the act, but this uncertainty, instead of demoralizing him added piquancy to the lovemaking. In any case, she was so good about everything; so sensitive; so entirely appreciative.

  Thinking of lovemaking, Burden experienced a sharp tug of desire, all senses suddenly heightened. This was going to be a memorable encounter, he told himself. No doubt of it. He could hardly wait for her to lead him into the bedroom with its fourposter bed and the view from the window of a copper beech, one of whose branches occasionally tapped on the windowpane, reminding her that it needed pruning, reminding him of a world outside, well lost.

  “And how is Clay?” She had first to go through the usual catechism of how was this one and have you seen that one. She was not to be rushed. He told her that Clay was in good spirits, but she frowned. “I wonder. I saw them the other night, at Laurel House.”

  Burden was astonished. He had the impression that she was not known to the Sanfords. “Were you there?” he asked, for once almost tactless.

  “Yes, after dinner. For a moment. With friends. I do like Blaise, and of course the house! Ma foi!” Burden was always impressed and only a little put off by her occasional use of French phrases, acquired, she once said, during a summer in Paris, at a school for jeunes filles. Although Burden knew no French, his ear was good and he could tell by certain flatnesses and odd nasalities that her pronunciation was not precise. But he loved her ambition. So few Washington women made the effort to learn anything. They drank hard, laughed loudly, knew all sorts of disreputable gossip about the great, and there it ended: village women inhabiting not a city but a supervillage.