flung open the door and stepped outside. “Not a damned thing.”
“That’s good!” she cried as he slammed the door. “Because I think it’s best not to know about things like that!”
Instantly he flung the door open again and glared at her.
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Not a thing,” she said as John Lennon Peacechild nuzzled greedily at her bulging flesh. “Not a thing at all. After all,” she said, giving him an innocent look over the baby’s busily working head, “what could I know? You’re the one who knows everything.”
“You get that damned supper,” he ordered grimly. “And don’t ask me any more damned questions, hear?”
And slammed out again and started jogging along the lane toward the deserted roadway in the gathering dusk.
“Yes, sir,” she said thoughtfully as she stepped to the window and watched him go. “Yes, sir!”
***
Chapter 4
In Washington, too, the long twilight began, and past the stately front entrance to the Supreme Court the stream of home-going cars passed steadily on their way to Maryland and Virginia. Skillful lighting illuminated the great white building so that its front portico seemed to glow from within. Along the main floor, obscured by trees and shrubbery, other lights burned. All of the Justices and their staffs were still at work. The day of Taylor Barbour’s nomination was drawing to a close. In the chambers of the Chief Justice, following the pleasant custom he had established soon after his appointment five years ago, he and such brethren as wished to were gathered to hail the coming of the night with whatever potion pleased them.
Duncan Elphinstone, who had always been a very light drinker, was holding a glass of white wine, as were Mary-Hannah McIntosh and Ray Ullstein. Wally Flyte and Rupert Hemmelsford, veterans of innumerable similar sessions in the Senate, were both drinking bourbon and water. Moss Pomeroy was sipping a vodka and tonic, Hughie Demsted the same, Clem Wallenberg a martini. They had just filled their glasses. Turning to one another with mock solemnity, they joined the Chief in their invariable toast, originally proposed by Justice Flyte in a characteristically irreverent moment:
“To the Honorable the Supreme Court and the Honorable Us!”
“Moss,” Hughie Demsted said, “tell us about your buddy Barbour. What can we expect?”
Moss looked thoughtful for a moment as they all settled down on chairs and sofas and studied him expectantly.
“W—ell,” he began slowly. “I first met Taylor Barbour in the library at Harvard Law School just about”—his eyes narrowed as he calculated—“twenty-four years ago this very day. Or maybe yesterday, I’m not quite sure. Anyway, a long time ago. We racked up positively brilliant grades together and we scoured the eastern seaboard for young ladies. You all know his general record—”
“I do,” Justice Hemmelsford said, “and it’s too damned liberal for me. But I will say he’s a good lawyer.”
“He is that,” Justice Demsted agreed, “and personally, I find his liberal record quite acceptable.”
“You would,” Rupert Hemmelsford said. “All you young fellows are alike.”
“I don’t see Moss winning any liberal ratings,” Hughie demurred with a grin.
“I try,” Moss said. “I try. Anyway, you know that his record is liberal, that in private practice he got away from corporate law and got more and more deeply involved in social causes, and that finally that brought him to the favorable attention of our great co-worker in the White House, who thereupon appointed him an Assistant Attorney General and then Solicitor General, which meant that he spent most of his time up here arguing the government’s side. I defer to my elders as to how good he was at that.”
“I thought he was very cogent,” the Chief said. “Very well informed, and well prepared.”
“Very effective as an advocate,” Ray Ullstein agreed. Wally Flyte nodded.
“A
“That’s good!” she cried as he slammed the door. “Because I think it’s best not to know about things like that!”
Instantly he flung the door open again and glared at her.
“And what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Not a thing,” she said as John Lennon Peacechild nuzzled greedily at her bulging flesh. “Not a thing at all. After all,” she said, giving him an innocent look over the baby’s busily working head, “what could I know? You’re the one who knows everything.”
“You get that damned supper,” he ordered grimly. “And don’t ask me any more damned questions, hear?”
And slammed out again and started jogging along the lane toward the deserted roadway in the gathering dusk.
“Yes, sir,” she said thoughtfully as she stepped to the window and watched him go. “Yes, sir!”
***
Chapter 4
In Washington, too, the long twilight began, and past the stately front entrance to the Supreme Court the stream of home-going cars passed steadily on their way to Maryland and Virginia. Skillful lighting illuminated the great white building so that its front portico seemed to glow from within. Along the main floor, obscured by trees and shrubbery, other lights burned. All of the Justices and their staffs were still at work. The day of Taylor Barbour’s nomination was drawing to a close. In the chambers of the Chief Justice, following the pleasant custom he had established soon after his appointment five years ago, he and such brethren as wished to were gathered to hail the coming of the night with whatever potion pleased them.
Duncan Elphinstone, who had always been a very light drinker, was holding a glass of white wine, as were Mary-Hannah McIntosh and Ray Ullstein. Wally Flyte and Rupert Hemmelsford, veterans of innumerable similar sessions in the Senate, were both drinking bourbon and water. Moss Pomeroy was sipping a vodka and tonic, Hughie Demsted the same, Clem Wallenberg a martini. They had just filled their glasses. Turning to one another with mock solemnity, they joined the Chief in their invariable toast, originally proposed by Justice Flyte in a characteristically irreverent moment:
“To the Honorable the Supreme Court and the Honorable Us!”
“Moss,” Hughie Demsted said, “tell us about your buddy Barbour. What can we expect?”
Moss looked thoughtful for a moment as they all settled down on chairs and sofas and studied him expectantly.
“W—ell,” he began slowly. “I first met Taylor Barbour in the library at Harvard Law School just about”—his eyes narrowed as he calculated—“twenty-four years ago this very day. Or maybe yesterday, I’m not quite sure. Anyway, a long time ago. We racked up positively brilliant grades together and we scoured the eastern seaboard for young ladies. You all know his general record—”
“I do,” Justice Hemmelsford said, “and it’s too damned liberal for me. But I will say he’s a good lawyer.”
“He is that,” Justice Demsted agreed, “and personally, I find his liberal record quite acceptable.”
“You would,” Rupert Hemmelsford said. “All you young fellows are alike.”
“I don’t see Moss winning any liberal ratings,” Hughie demurred with a grin.
“I try,” Moss said. “I try. Anyway, you know that his record is liberal, that in private practice he got away from corporate law and got more and more deeply involved in social causes, and that finally that brought him to the favorable attention of our great co-worker in the White House, who thereupon appointed him an Assistant Attorney General and then Solicitor General, which meant that he spent most of his time up here arguing the government’s side. I defer to my elders as to how good he was at that.”
“I thought he was very cogent,” the Chief said. “Very well informed, and well prepared.”
“Very effective as an advocate,” Ray Ullstein agreed. Wally Flyte nodded.
“A
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