Adam walked into the Room. He took a look in the glass box that was Gordon’s office. Gordon was talking with his deputy. Adam looked up at the clock; it was eleven. He glanced guiltily over at Martina’s desk. She was sitting behind her screen, the owlish doyenne. No, she looked a little funny. He tried to see her face better. Oh, there were flowers on her desk. White roses—an expensive, oversized bunch of them. It must have been her birthday, or maybe anniversary—but she looked awful. Even for Martina she looked terrible. Was she embarrassed by the flowers? Surely not. Though they were rather—much—for work, to have at work, to have them seen. They looked as if they were made for a debutante. It occurred to him that maybe she and her husband had had a nasty fight. The apology bouquet—Adam had sent more than a few. White, the color of mortification, his first wife had said. He’d always chosen yellow. But he’d once tried red, and it had worked far better. What had she said? Oh, that yellow roses were for funerals. Red was for passion. He’d been a dud in that department. He was a yellow husband, through and through. The white-roses husband—he couldn’t decide how to see such a man.

He turned around to see if Gordon was done with his deputy. He walked a few steps, got interrupted by a copy aide with a press release. As he was beginning to read, he saw Martina approaching, just about even with his secretary’s desk. She looked like she had the flu. He’d tell her to go home—that way he could talk with Gordon, maybe even risk a walk outside. It was a bright autumn morning. Poor Martina, she looked gray, not healthy at all. He was set to be solicitous when he saw Gordon coming, his meeting with the deputy abruptly over, from the opposite direction.