Dave interrupted. “That’s right, Czar. You’ve put it just on the button. Of course, a nice little boat to run around in, that’s something else again. My boat, for example, of course compared to the old Buccaneer she’s a minnow next to a whale. But this old hulk, she’s earning her living now.”

Louise Husack, somewhat soporific, what with rich food, alcohol, and a heart that had been strictly forbidden these, now became sufficiently aware of the argument’s trend to wish to take part in it.

“Christine dearie, you never saw the Buccaneer when she was in her prime, any more than you did a race horse. So what are you driving at, not knowing!”

“She was the most beautiful and perfect ship of her kind in the world. That was excuse enough for her living.”

Sotto voce Bay said, very close beside her, “Give it up, Chris. You can’t win.”

Now the vast dessert arrived, a ceremony, almost a ritual, with three waiters and Emil as acolytes and priest. Baked Alaska, golden, mountainous, at once hot and cold in some miraculous way. Plates were being handed round.

“This is Alaska, all right,” Czar said as his fork went into the rich confection. “Layer of cold and layer of hot. Cold and sweet, hot and sweet. Ice cream and cake. People Outside think it’s all cold. Well, let ’em. We know better, don’t we, Dave!”

But before Dave could agree to this with more than a preliminary chuckle, a boy in hotel uniform crossed the great room and stopped beside Dave’s chair.

“Telephone for you, Mr. Husack.”

“How’s that? Oh. Take the number.”

“They said very important, it says.” He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand.

“Oh, now, David!” Louise Husack turned protective. “You finish your dinner and tell them to call the house later. They’re after him, day and night,” pridefully, “Washington and San Francisco and New York and I don’t know where all.”

“Go away, boy.”

Czar Kennedy viewed this power performance with detachment. Smoothly, he picked up the table talk as though the bellboy had not interrupted. He even managed a fond tolerant laugh. “My little Christine isn’t used to champagne.”

Suprisingly, Dave was receptive to this. “Me neither. Filthy stuff. It never did agree with me. Stick to whiskey. Champagne is for chorus girls.”

“Chorus girls of your day, Dad. They don’t go for stuff like that now. They’re like you, they stick to scotch.”

“My son’s quite a stage-door Johnny.”

“What’s a stage-door Johnny?” Chris asked.

A laugh went round the table in which Chris found herself joining ruefully. “Did I say something?” But even after it was explained she seemed puzzled. “Just goes to show how far away Alaska really is,” Dave said. “Far away and out of step.”

The bellboy was at Dave’s elbow again and this time he was fortified by Emil. “There are two or three gentlemen—that is, men from the newspapers—out there to see you, Mr. Husack. And the telephone. I could have it plugged in here, of course, though in this dining room we generally prefer not—–”