“I don’t know. I’d like to know what’s going on. I don’t even know who’s running for president! Did Al Smith win the nomination after all?”

“Yes, he did. The Democratic sacrificial lamb. Hasn’t got a chance against Hoover.”

The door opened. Sam walked in, whistling. “Who? Al Smith?” he said.

Morrow folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his plate. “They’ve got to field somebody, don’t they? Why not some Irish wet who’ll scare the dickens out of the Southern Baptists and raise the hackles of the do-gooding bluebloods. Say, you ought to try the hash.”

Sam carried his brimming plate next to Irene and sat down. Under the tablecloth, his leg tangled with hers. “Wouldn’t mind taking a look at that newspaper, if you’re done with it.”

“I was just telling Irene that it might not be a bad idea to take a little holiday away from the news. As we’re doing now.”

Sam looked at Morrow; Morrow stared back at him. Irene noticed the pause and looked up, but by the time she realized there was some message passing between the two of them, both men had returned to their breakfast. The new-risen sun tumbled through the window. From somewhere in the house came the sound of human activity, Hounslow and Bruce, probably, returned from their ride. Irene slipped off her shoe and caressed Sam’s ankle with her toe. He choked a little on his hash and reached for the coffee. The door burst open.

“Morrow! There you are. Some fellow just came in with an express telegram for you.” Hounslow thrust out his hand, which held a familiar yellow envelope. Morrow leaned forward across the table and took it. “Fine weather this morning, isn’t it? How’s breakfast?”

“Breakfast is terrific,” said Irene, who was watching George Morrow’s face as he read his telegram. “We appreciate the hospitality.”

“Why, it’s no trouble at all. Bruce here said the two of you were looking a bit peaky with all the fuss. That’s the beauty of this place. Nobody can be troubled to find you here.” Hounslow clapped his hand on Mr. Bruce’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Prime Minister?”

Morrow rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Mr. Mallory, might I have a moment of your time?”

Sam wiped his mouth and rose. “Certainly.”