“Something more than personal aggrandizement. You who are so close to him, miss what the general mass of people who see him from a distance recognize quite clearly. He lives like a monk—he gets no personal profit out of what he does and his long hours of work. And he does not care what’s thought of him.”

“Any more than you do.”

“Me?” caught by an unexpected amount of truth in this charge, Donal could still protest. “I care for the opinion of the people whose opinion I care for.”

“Such as?” she said.

“Well you,’’ he answered, “for one. Though I don’t know why.”

About to say something, and hardly waiting for him to finish so she could say it, she checked suddenly; and stared at him, her eyes widening.

“Oh,” she gasped, “don’t try to tell me that!”

“I hardly know why I try to tell you anything,” he said, suddenly very bitter; and went off, leaving her where she stood.

He went directly out from the cocktail gathering and back to his own suite, where he immersed himself in work that kept him at his desk until the small hours of the morning. Even then, when he at last got to bed, he did not sleep well—a condition he laid to a walking hangover from the drinks at the cocktail gathering.

His mind would have examined this excuse further—but he would not let it.

PROTECTOR III

“. . . A typical impasse,” said William, Prince of Ceta. “Have some more of this Moselle.”

“Thank you, no,” answered Donal. The Conference was in its second week and he had accepted William’s invitation to lunch with him in William’s suite, following a morning session. The fish was excellent, the wine was imported—and Donal was curious, although so far they had spoken of nothing of real importance.

“You disappoint me,” William said, replacing the decanter on the small table between them. “I’m not very strong in the food and drink department myself—but I do enjoy watching others enjoy them.” He raised his eyebrows at Donal. “But your early training on the Dorsai is rather Spartan?”

“In some respects, yes,” answered Donal. “Spartan and possibly a little provincial. I’m finding myself sliding into Hendrik Galt’s impatience with the lack of progress in our talks.”

“Well, there you have it,” said William. “The soldier loves action, the politician the sound of his own voice. But there’s a better explanation than that, of course. You’ve realized by now, no doubt, that the things that concern a Conference aren’t settled at the Conference table”—he gestured with his hand at the food before him—“but at small tete-a-tetes like these.”

“I’d guess then that the tete-a-tetes haven’t been too productive of agreements so far.” Donal sipped at the wine left in his glass.