The final call was to Douglas Martening, Clerk of the Privy Council, and procedural Solon at all cabinet meetings. With Martening, Milly was more respectful than with the others. Ministers might come and go, but the Clerk of the Privy Council, while in office, was the senior civil servant in Ottawa. He also had a reputation for aloofness and most times when Milly spoke to him gave the impression of scarcely being aware of her. But today, unusually, he was gloomily chatty.

'It will be a long meeting, I suppose. Probably go right on over into Christmas Day.'

'It wouldn't surprise me, sir,' Milly said. Then tentatively,

'But if it does I could always send out for turkey sandwiches.'

Martening grunted, then again surprisingly came back, 'It isn't sandwiches I need. Miss Freedeman. Just some other kind of work where a fellow gets a little more home life now and then.'

Afterwards Milly reflected: was disenchantment infectious? Could the great Mr Martening be about to join the parade of senior civil servants who had left the ranks of government for higher-paying industrial jobs? The question made her wonder about herself. Was this a time for departure; a time for change before it became too late for change?

She was still wondering four hours later as the members of the cabinet Defence Committee began to assemble in the Prime Minister's office suite on Parliament Hill. Dressed in a smartly tailored grey suit with a white blouse, Milly ushered them in.

General Nesbitson had been last to arrive, his balding, pudgy figure wrapped in a heavy overcoat and scarf. Helping him off with them, Milly had been shocked to see how unwell the old man appeared and now, as if to confirm the opinion, he suddenly began a coughing spell into his handkerchief.

Milly poured some ice water from a carafe and held it out. The old warrior sipped it, nodding gratefully. After an interval and more coughing, he managed to gasp, 'Excuse me – this blasted catarrh. Always get it when I have to stay the winter in Ottawa. Used to take a winter holiday down south. Can't get away now, with so many important things going on.'

Next year, maybe, Milly thought.

'A Merry Christmas, Adrian.' Stuart Cawston had joined them, his amiably ugly features beaming, as usual, like an illuminated sign.

Lucien Perrault spoke from behind him. 'And such a one to be wishing it, whose taxes pierce our souls like daggers.' Jauntily handsome, with a shock of black curls, bristling moustache, and a humorous eye, Perrault was as fluent in English as in French. At times – though not now – his manner betrayed a touch of hauteur, reminder of his seigneurial ancestors. At thirty-eight, and the youngest member of Cabinet, his influence was actually much stronger than indicated by the comparatively minor office he held. But the Defence Production Ministry had been Perrault's own choosing, and since it was one of the three patronage ministries (the others. Public Works and Transport), by ensuring that plum contracts went to the party's financial supporters, his influence in the party hierarchy was considerable.

'You shouldn't have your soul so near your bank account, Lucien,' the Finance Minister rejoined. 'In any case I'm Santa Claus to you fellows. You and Adrian here are the ones who buy the expensive toys.'

'But they explode with such a remarkable bang,' Lucien Perrault said. 'Moreover, my friend, in Defence Production we create much work and employment which bring you more taxes than ever.'

'There's an economic theory tied in there somewhere,' Cawston said. 'Too bad I've never understood it.'

The office intercom buzzed and Milly answered. Metallically James Howden's voice announced, 'The meeting will be in the Privy Council chamber. I'll be there in a moment.'

Milly saw the Finance Minister's eyebrows rise with mild surprise. Most small policy meetings aside from the full Cabinet usually took place informally in the Prime Minister's office. But obediently the group filed out into the corridor towards the Privy Council chamber a few yards away.

As Milly closed her office door behind Perrault, the last to leave, the Bourbon Bell of the Peace Tower carillon was chiming eleven.

Unusually, she found herself wondering what to do. There was plenty of accumulated work, but on Christmas Eve she felt disinclined to begin anything new. All of the seasonal things – routine Christmas telegrams to the Queen, Commonwealth Prime Ministers, and heads of friendly governments -had been prepared and typed yesterday for early dispatch today. Anything else, she decided, could wait until after the holiday.

Her earrings were being bothersome and she slipped them off. They were pearl, like small round buttons. She had never been fond of jewellery and knew it did nothing for her. The one thing she had learned – jewellery or nor – was that she was attractive to men, though she had never quite known why…

The phone on her desk buzzed and she answered it. It was Brian Richardson.

'Milly,' the party director said, 'has the defence meeting started?'

'They just went in.'

'Goddam!' Richardson sounded out of breath, as if he had been hurrying. Abruptly he asked, 'Did the chief say anything to you about the blow-up last night?'

'What blow-up?'

'Obviously he didn't. There was practically a fist fight at the GG's. Harvey Warrender blew his cork – dipped generously in alcohol, I gather.'

Shocked, Milly said, 'At Government House? The reception?'

'That's the word around town.'

'But why Mr Warrender?'

'I'm curious too,' Richardson admitted. 'I've a notion it might have been because of something I said the other day.'

'What?'

'About immigration. Warrender's department has been getting us a stinking bad press. I asked the chief to lay some law down.'

Milly smiled. 'Perhaps he laid it down too heavily.'

'It ain't funny, kid. Brawling between cabinet ministers doesn't win elections. I'd better talk to the chief as soon as he's free, Milly. And there's another thing you can warn him about: unless Harvey Warrender pulls his finger out fast we're heading for more immigration trouble on the West Coast. I know there's a lot sizzling right now, but this is important too.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'I had a call from one of my people out there this morning,' Richardson said. 'It seems the Vancouver Post has broken a story about a jerk stowaway who claims he isn't getting a fair deal from Immigration. My man says some goddam writer is sobbing all over page one. It's exactly the kind of case I've been warning everybody about.'

'Is he getting a fair deal – the stowaway?'

'For Christ sake, who cares?' The party director's voice rattled sharply into the receiver. 'All I want is for him to quit being news. If the only way to shut the papers up is by letting the bastard in, then let's admit him and have done with it.'

'My!' Milly said. 'You are in a forceful mood.'

'If I am,' Richardson snapped back, 'it's because sometimes ^ I get downright weary of stupid hicks like Warrender who,, make political farts and then look for me to clear up the mess.' "j

'Apart from the vulgarity,' Milly said lightly, 'isn't that a mixed metaphor?' She found the rough edge to Brian Richardson's tongue and character refreshing after the professional smoothness and spoken cliches of most politicians she met. Perhaps it was this, Milly thought, which had made her think ' more warmly of Richardson of late – more so, in fact, than she had ever intended.

The feeling had begun six months earlier when the party director had begun to ask her out on dates. At first, uncertain whether she liked him or not, Milly had accepted out of curiosity. But later the curiosity had turned to liking and, on the evening a month or so ago which had ended in her apartment, to physical attraction.