With George and with George alone she could sometimes laugh. And now she was waiting for him and Pen to pick her up and drive her to the courthouse. She had already had a talk with Julia on the telephone. Damon was closeted with his lawyer, but Julia said he was in good form and that they had all warned him about not losing his temper. “We’ll just hope for the best,” she said. “Damon has nothing to hide.”

No, Grace thought, he has nothing to hide, but he has publicly denounced the methods of this committee all over the country. Damon and Julia had been pouring money and time out in defense of their friends and the many unknowns caught up in the general hysteria. Damon was safe in his professorship—at least so far—and Harvard had made a strong stand. But the committee was sure to bait him, and they must have something in mind, something to spring or they wouldn’t be televising.

Grace’s spirits rose as she got into George’s battered old Ford, where she was squeezed in between him and Pen. She felt absurdly young, excited suddenly, a little breathless.

“The place will be packed, of course,” George said, stepping on the accelerator. “Goldberg is coming, by the way, told me so yesterday.” George grinned. “He had the air of a martyr going to the stake.”

“Well, he’s been very good,” Pen answered. “Not only dedicating his book to Edward Cavan—that took some courage, I expect—but the way he’s stood up lately and spoken out. I must say I’m amazed.”

“I’m not,” George said, “he’s not as cold as he seems—and then he told me once that he had refused to be on some committee Edward asked him to be on only two or three days before he died. It seems to have bothered him a good deal.”

They had got through the traffic in the Square and were out on the river now, speeding along with the Harvard Houses coming into view and swiftly left behind them; the bridge where George had stood so long ago with his book alive in his hands sped away. “At least he’s got his book out, which is more than can be said for me,” George said, perhaps half consciously remembering the sense of clear power he had felt, that power so diffused and scattered now by full-time teaching. Could it have been five years ago? Where had it all gone?

Pen, seeing his face set, reached over to touch his shoulder. “Next year you’ll have time, George. You really will.”

“If I get the fellowship——”

“Well, Goldberg’s backing you, isn’t he? What more do you want?”