"I do not know anything about whether American women can vote," Lucien replied. He remained unconvinced that granting the franchise to the women of Quebec had been the best idea in the history of the world. But he'd discovered that saying as much to his wife landed him in hotter water than anything this side of announcing he'd taken a mistress. He knew several men who had taken mistresses, none of them rash enough to announce it.

"I hope the Americans elect the Socialist," Marie said. "They will be calmer if they do."

"I think they will return Roosevelt," Lucien declared. "Even if he is a Protestant, he is a very great man. And Socialists, from everything I have heard, do not believe in le bon Dieu at all."

He thought that would change his wife's mind; she cared far more for the trappings of piety than did he. But she said, "Perhaps le bon Dieu believes in them," a reply so oracular, Galtier had not the faintest idea how to respond to it.

Hal Jacobs said, "What was that song Lord Cornwallis' band played when he had to surrender to the Americans at Yorktown?"

"I haven't the faintest notion," Nellie Jacobs answered. Her schooling had stopped early. Not only that, Clara was trying to twist out of her arms and land on her head on the bedroom floor. That kept Nellie from thinking as clearly as she might have done.

"Now it will bother me," Hal said. "It is something I used to know, and I am not such an old man that I should be forgetting things." He smiled at Clara. "If I were such an old man, I would not have a little daughter now."

Nellie had not expected he would have a little daughter now. Even more to the point, she hadn't expected she would have a little daughter now. Had she expected such a thing, she would have taken precautions. She admitted to herself, though, that she did enjoy having Clara around.

Hal snapped his fingers, which made Clara stop wiggling and look to see where the funny noise came from." 'The World Turned Upside Down'!" he exclaimed.

"What, when we had the baby?" Nellie said. "It sure did."

"No, no, no," he answered. "I mean, yes, it did, but no, that is not what I meant." He paused, by all appearances having confused himself. After a moment, he went on, "What I meant was, 'The World Turned Upside Down' is the song Cornwallis' band played at the surrender."

"Oh," Nellie said. "Well, why didn't you say that, if it's what you meant? And why are you bothering your head about Corn-what's-his-name in the first place?"

"I wasn't thinking about Cornwallis so much," Hal said. "I was trying to remember the name of the song. You must admit, it fits the news of the last couple of days."

"Oh," Nellie said. "The election." It hardly seemed real to her: she was disenfranchised not because she was a woman but because she lived in Washington, D.C. Hal hadn't voted on Tuesday, either, and couldn't have.

"Yes, the election." He clicked his tongue between his teeth. "When the Democrats lose for the first time since 1880, the world has turned upside down. And when the Socialists win for the first time ever, it has really turned upside down."

"I suppose it has." Nellie shook her head. "Doesn't seem right, turning President Roosevelt out of a job after he went and won the war for the United States. I can't name anybody else who could have done that."

"Dada," Clara said. She said mama, too, and Eh-uh, which was intended as the name of her half sister.

"How about it, Hal?" Nellie asked. "Do you think you could have won the war for the United States?" After a moment, she went on, "As a matter of fact, you did go a long way toward winning the war for the USA, at least as far as Washington goes."

Hal waved a hand. He was, Nellie had seen, as modest and self-deprecating a man as had ever been born. That had helped keep her from noticing his many good qualities for longer than she should have. He said, "For one thing, I had the very best of help, of which you were no small part."

"Pooh!" Nellie said.

"Pooh!" Clara echoed. She gurgled and laughed, liking the sound she'd just imitated.

"Pooh!" Nellie repeated, which made Clara laugh again. Nellie continued, "I got a medal I didn't especially deserve, and you deserved one and never got it."

Hal Jacobs shrugged. "I know what I did. My country knows what I did. I do not need any medals. And besides, if anyone should have won a medal, it was Bill Reach. I was far from the only man who reported to him. He was the one who put everything together and got most of it out. I know you did not much like him, but it is very sad that he did not live to see our victory."

"You've said that before," Nellie replied, and dropped it there. She was the only person in the world who knew what had happened to Bill Reach, and she intended to take the secret to the grave with her. As far as she was concerned, he deserved everything she'd given him. But Hal still thought well of him, so she'd kept her own remarks to the fewest she could get away with.

"President Upton Sinclair." Hal, to her relief, went back to the world turning upside down. He shrugged again. "It does not sound like a name that belongs to a president. Presidents are named John or Thomas or Andrew or Theodore. Upton?" He shook his head. "It sounds like a name for a butler, not a president."

"Well, so it does," Nellie said. "We've got four years to get used to it, though. By the time 1924 rolls around, it'll seem natural enough."

"I suppose it may," Hal admitted. "By then, I hope the country will be sick of it, and will vote him out of office and put in a good Democrat with a nice, ordinary name."

"Maybe it won't be so bad." Nellie slid a finger under the edge of Clara's diaper. "Oh, good-you're dry." She sat down at the edge of the bed and began to bounce the baby gently up and down. "Come on, sweetheart, time for you to go to sleep."

"Time for you to go to sleep so your mother and father can go to sleep," Hal added. He yawned. "I had forgotten how much sleep you lose when a baby is small."

"So had I," Nellie said. "And the other thing is, I need sleep more now than I did when Edna was little. I'm not as young as I used to be, and boy, does Clara let me know it." She glanced warily down at her daughter, whose eyelids were fighting a losing battle against sliding shut. "Shh. I think she is going to drop off."

Only after Nellie had put the baby in the cradle that made the bedroom crowded did Hal say, "You are still young and beautiful to me, my dear Nellie. You always will be."

"Pooh!'" Nellie said once more. She knew why men talked that way: to get women to go to bed with them. Any woman who believed such blandishments was almost enough of a fool to deserve what she would assuredly get. So a hard lifetime of experience had taught Nellie. But living with and listening to Hal were giving her occasional second thoughts.

She was too tired to indulge in second thoughts now, or even first ones. She let herself collapse onto the bed. Had she lain there for even a couple of minutes, she would have fallen asleep without changing into nightclothes. She'd done that a couple of times, on days when Clara was teething or sick or just ornery. Falling asleep in a corset was impressive proof of what exhaustion could do.

Tonight, though, she decided she wanted to be free of lacing and steel rods. With a weary sigh, she got to her feet, took off her skirt and shirtwaist, and escaped from the corset. A wool flannel nightgown went over her like a friendly, comfortable tent. Hal put on not only a nightshirt only a bit shorter than her gown but also a wool nightcap with a tassel. No cold breezes would take him by surprise.

"Good night," he said as he and Nellie crawled under the covers. "I hope little Clara will let us sleep till morning."

She did. She did more often than not these days, a blessed relief from the first few weeks after she'd come home from the hospital. Still, the nights when she didn't were appalling enough to make up for a lot of the ones when she did.