'All right.' Her voice was husky.

The light switch snapped in the silence. As it did, faintly from outside came the high-pitched whine of aeroplane engines high over the city. The sound came closer, then receded as the night flight to Vancouver – Senator Deveraux among its passengers – turned westward, climbing swiftly through the darkness.

'Be gentle, Brian,' Milly whispered. "This time… please be gentle.'

In Vancouver on Christmas morning Alan Maitland slept late, and when he awoke there was a furry taste in his mouth from the drinks he had had at his law partner's home the night before. Yawning and scratching the top of his crew-cut head which itched, he remembered they had killed a couple of bottles between the three of them – himself, Tom Lewis, and Tom's wife Lillian. It was an extravagance, really, since neither he nor Tom had money to spare for that kind of thing, especially now that Lillian was pregnant and Tom was having trouble keeping up his mortgage payments on the tiny house he had bought six months ago in North Vancouver. Then Alan thought: Oh, what the hell, and rolling his athlete's six-foot length out of bed, padded barefoot to the bathroom.

Returning, he put on old flannel trousers and a faded college T shirt. Then he mixed instant coffee, made toast, and scraped on some honey from a jar. To eat, he sat on the bed which occupied most of the available space in the cramped bachelor apartment on Gilford Street near English Bay. Later the bed could be made to disappear into the wall like a retracted landing gear, but Alan seldom hurried this, preferring to meet the day gradually, as he always had since discovering long ago he could do most things best by easing into them slowly.

He was wondering if he should bother frying some bacon when his phone rang. It was Tom Lewis.

'Listen, you lunkhead,' Tom said. 'How come you never told me about your high society friends?'

'A guy doesn't like to boast. The Vanderbilts and me…' Alan swallowed a piece of half-chewed toast. 'What high society friends?'

'Senator Deveraux, for one. The Richard Deveraux. He wants you up at his house – today; chop, chop.'

'You're crazy!'

'Crazy, my eye! I just had a call from G. K. Bryant – of Culliner, Bryant, Mortimer, Lane, and Roberts, otherwise known as "we the people". They do most of old Deveraux's legal work, it seems, but this time the Senator has asked for you specifically.'

'How could he?' Alan was sceptical. 'Somebody's made a mistake; got a name wrong obviously.'

'Listen, junior,' Tom said, 'if nature endowed you with above-average stupidity, try not to add to it. The man they want is Alan Maitland of the thriving young law firm – at least, it would be if we had a couple of clients – of Lewis and Maitland. That's you, isn't it?'

'Sure, but…'

'Now why a man like Senator Deveraux should want Maitland when he can get Lewis, who was a year ahead of Maitland in law school, and considerably smarter, as this conversation demonstrates, is beyond me, but…'

'Wait a minute,' Alan interjected. 'You did say Deveraux.'

'Not more than six times which, I admit, is not enough for penetration…'

'There was a Sharon Deveraux in my last year of college. We met a few times, went on a date once, though I haven't seen her since. Maybe she…'

'Maybe she did; maybe she didn't. All I know is that Senator Deveraux, on this clear and sunny Christmas morning, is waiting for one Alan Maitland.'

'I'll go,' Alan said. 'Maybe there's a present for me under his tree.'

'Here's the address,' Tom said, and, when Alan had written it down, 'I shall pray for you. I might even call our office landlord and get him to pray too; after all, his rent depends upon it.'

'Tell him I'll do my best.'

'There was never a doubt,' Tom said. 'Good luck.'

Senator Deveraux – not surprisingly, Alan Maitland thought – lived on South West Marine Drive.

Alan knew the Drive well, by reputation and through occasional contact during his days in college. High above downtown Vancouver, facing southwest across the North Arm of the widening Fraser River towards pastoral Lulu Island, the area was a social mecca and seat of much accumulated wealth. The view from most points along the Drive was remarkable, on clear days extending as far as the US border and the State of Washington. It was also, Alan knew, a symbolic view, since most who lived there had either attained social eminence or were born to it. A second symbolism was in the great, patterned log booms, moored in the river below or towed majestically by tugs to sawmills. Logging and lumber founded the fortune of the Province of British Columbia and even now sustained it largely.

Alan Maitland caught a glimpse of the Fraser River at the same time that he located Senator Deveraux's house. The Senator, Alan decided, must possess one of the best views along the entire shore line.

It was sunny, clear, and crisp as he drove towards the big Tudor-style mansion. The house was shielded from questing eyes of passers-by by a tall cedar hedge and set well back from the road, with a curving driveway presided over at its entrance by twin gargoyles on double wrought-iron gates. A shining Chrysler Imperial was in the driveway and Alan Maitland parked his elderly paint-faded Chev behind it. He walked to the massive, studded front door set in a baronial portico and rang the bell. Presently a butler opened it.

'Good morning,' Alan said; 'my name is Maitland.' 'Please come in, sir.' The butler was a frail, white-haired man who moved as if his feet hurt. He preceded Alan through a short riled corridor into a large open entrance hall. At the entry to the hallway a slim, slight figure appeared.

It was Sharon Deveraux and she was as he recalled her -not beautiful but petite, elfin almost, her face longish and with deep humorous eyes. Her hair was different, Alan noticed. It was raven black and she used to wear it long; now it was done in a pixie cut and becoming, he thought.

'Hullo,' Alan said. 'I hear you could use a lawyer.'

'At the moment,' Sharon said promptly, 'we'd prefer a plumber. The.toilet in Granddaddy's bathroom won't stop running.'

There was something else he was reminded of – a dimple in her left cheek which came and went when she smiled, as she was doing now.

'This particular lawyer,' Alan said, 'does plumbing on the side. Things haven't been too brisk around the law books lately.'

Sharon laughed. 'Then I'm glad I remembered you.' The butler took his coat and Alan looked curiously around him.

The house, inside and out, bespoke wealth and substance. They had stopped in a large open entrance hall, its walls of polished linen-fold panelling, its ceiling Renaissance, above a gleaming pegged-oak floor. In a massive Tudor fireplace, ranked by fluted pilasters, a log fire burned brightly, and near the fireplace an arrangement of red arid yellow roses graced an Elizabethan refectory table. On a colourful Kerman rug a dignified Yorkshire armchair faced a Knoll sofa, and opposite, on the far side of the hall, crewel embroidery hangings framed oriel windows.

'Granddaddy got back from Ottawa last night,' Sharon said, rejoining him, 'and at breakfast was talking about wanting a young Abe Lincoln. So I said there was someone I used to know called Alan Maitland who was going to be a lawyer and had all sorts of ideals… do you still have them, by the way?'

'I guess so,' Alan said, a shade uncomfortably. He reflected that he must have sounded off to this girl more than he remembered. 'Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.' It was warm in the house and he wriggled his neck inside the starched white shirt he had put on under his one good charcoal-grey suit.