“Coffee?” Morrow said, and Irene replied yes. By now, he knew how she took it, and added the single spoonful of sugar without asking first. When they were both settled, he spoke again. “What a circus, eh? I’m glad this offer of Bruce’s popped up. I think it’s just the thing for you. A few days of quiet.”

“It’s been hectic, all right.” Irene sipped her coffee. “What were you and Sam talking about?”

“A private matter. No doubt he’ll tell you all about it, when he can.”

“When he can? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean when he’s able. It’s a private matter, as I said.”

Irene was trying not to shake from nerves. Of course she couldn’t press Morrow. She couldn’t imply she had some right to know Sam’s personal affairs, that she was intimately involved in them. “I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said.

Morrow replaced his cup in his saucer and spoke carefully. “As you know, Mallory has a family of his own, which requires his attention from time to time. A family’s a great responsibility.”

“Of course it is. I hope—”

“You, on the other hand, don’t have any such distractions. It’s a real advantage, when we consider your career.”

“My career?”

“You’ve got a bright future ahead, Irene. Your name, your face—why, you’re the most recognizable woman on the face of the earth. Better than some actress, even, because you’ve got credibility. You’ve got substance. Everybody admires you. I’ve got so many offers for you, I can’t even read them all. Books, syndicated columns, your own show on the radio. Chewing gum. Hair shampoo. Cigarettes.”

Irene caught the last word. “But I don’t even smoke!”

“Who cares? They’ll offer you a pile of money. Enough so you can buy your own airplane. You can fly solo, you can amaze the world, as you were born to do. And I’ll stand right by you, never fear. I won’t do a thing without your say-so.”

“I fly with Sam. We’re a team.”

Morrow set his coffee aside. “Irene, would you mind if I speak to you candidly?”

Irene clutched the sides of her saucer. Morrow was leaning forward now, hands gathered in the gap between his knees, a pose that reminded her of Sam. “What are you getting at, Mr. Morrow?”

“It’s just this. I like Sam Mallory. He’s a first-rate pilot, maybe the best pilot in America. Maybe the best pilot in the world. But he’s—well, I want to say this the right way. Impulsive. He’s a little impulsive, which is not a bad trait in itself, mind you, but as a business manager, you become anxious. You don’t know what he’s going to do next. You can’t count on him, to put it bluntly.”