As if by an unspoken agreement, the two men rose and made the short walk to the dining room. The wainscoted corridor was adorned with portraits of great patriots and conservatives from America’s past. The dining room, though elegant, was a tad fusty for White’s taste. He could still imagine the uniformed Negroes bowing and scraping to the white members as they lived to serve, just like plantation slaves.

They were shown to a table for four, in the far corner, close to the leaded windows looking out onto the rose garden. Menus were set before them, further drink orders were taken, and they were left alone.

“I called earlier,” St. Vincent said, picking up the menu. “I had them make fried chicken as a special.”

“I hate fried chicken,” White said, determined not to be baited.

“No, you don’t. You love fried chicken, and the version they make here is spectacular.” He put down the menu. “That’s what I’m going to have.”

“Suit yourself.”

St. Vincent smiled as their drinks were delivered. “We’re not ready yet,” he told the venerable waiter, who all but clicked his heels before he withdrew. He took a sip of his Scotch.

“I’ll be having the chef’s salad.”

“You poor bastard, Albin. Spiteful in everything you do, even toward yourself.”

White reached for a roll and, in doing so, knocked his drink off the table. The glass fell to the parquet floor, shattering with a sound to lift every head in the room, even the one or two ancients, dozing over their Dover soles.

“Oops,” White said, staring at St. Vincent.

Not one but two waiters hurried over to clean up the mess.

“I hope that made you feel better,” St. Vincent said when they had ordered and were alone again.

“Better than a blunt stick in the eye,” White observed.

St. Vincent settled himself more comfortably in his overstuffed chair. “Look, Albin, no one appreciates more than I everything you’ve done for us—especially when it comes to the Well, where, as you know, we’re on the same page. But some days—and today’s one of them—it seems a pity that I dislike you so as a human being.”

“Frankly, I don’t think about you at all, Luther, not even when I’m with you.”

“You know what your problem is? You despise everyone who isn’t black, conservative, and rich. Who isn’t you, in other words. Worse, you enjoy punishing them for those supposed sins. You remind me of those plantation blacks who served their master in his mansion, turning against their own in the fields. They were often crueler than the owners ever were.”

White was on the verge of rising and walking out, but their dinner was served.

St. Vincent grinned without an iota of warmth. “Timed that just right, didn’t I?”

White picked up his fork and knife in a manner vaguely menacing.