“Shall I put ‘R.S.V.P.’?”

“R.S.V.P.? Christ no. If they don’t want to come and drink champagne they can go to hell.” His quivering hand passed unimpeded over the top of his head. “What a day.”

“You’ve been busy?”

“Nothing to what it was before, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“The first couple of weeks. Just me, Noreen, and the Cap. Kept going on coffee and cigarettes. The Cap’s a great guy, don’t you think? A rough diamond.”

“They don’t make them like that any more.”

“Knows this region like the back of his hand. You should hear him. Not much of a talker, but when he gets going.”

Miss Kingslake said, “He has a singular verbal tic.”

She could not tell whether she had said something unspeakable or merely incomprehensible. Grilli stared at her. “I’m trying to get him recruited into the Organization. A senior post, of course. He’s wasted in the Army. I’ve spoken to Mr. Rees about it. The Organization, that’s the place for him.”

Miss Kingslake said, “He seems so at home in B.O.Q.”

Grilli returned to his papers. “A lot to do. Been a big strain, this job. Not the work, even, but the responsibility.”

As long as he does his job. Miss Kingslake’s pencil was at the ready.

“Being on your own, that’s what gets you. Anything goes wrong, you’re responsible.”

“That’s what I imagine.” She lowered her pencil again.

“Dealing direct with the big brass. They want something—they want it now, like this.” He snapped his thumb and forefinger twice.

“Frightening, sometimes.”

“I can handle it.”

“Naturally.”

“Can’t talk all day. I’ve got a job to do.” He tipped his chair back and locked his hands behind his head. He looked expansive—not only in the physical sense, for his face assumed a contented anticipatory smile. “A letter. For today’s pouch.”

Miss Kingslake poised her pencil.

“One flimsy.”

“Just one.” She made a note.

“White.” Grilli gazed upward, his eyes—half-closed in the act of composition—rotating over the motionless ceiling fan. His lips moved once or twice before he actually spoke.

“Dearest Mom,” he began.

THE SEPARATION OF DINAH DELBANCO

Cornelia Fromme said, “The thing is, Dinah’s got money now. Try one of these.”

“As if the Organization could care less.” Millicent Bass rolled her chair up closer to her desk. “No thanks, I like the soft centers. Does anyone know how much it is?”

“Hard to formulate a valid idea. It can’t be much, since her uncle lived to be ninety-four. And then, Dinah’s ambivalent, you know. Says she’d like to go on working for the Organization, but that she’s got to have this upgrading.”

“Think of Dinah making demands. I remember when she first came to Social and Anthropological. I remember when she could scarcely function within a given situation.”