Common sense warned Milly against deeper emotional involvement. She reminded herself of Richardson's marriage, the unlikelihood of anything permanent between the two of them, her own vulnerability… But the image persisted, daydreams ousting reason, an echo of softly whispered words: I want you, Milly I don't know any other way to say it, except I want you… And in the end it was this thought which became, deliciously and dreamily, her last remembrance of the waking day.

Brian Richardson had a hard-working Christmas Day. He had left Milly's apartment in the early morning and, after four hours of sleep, his alarm clock wakened him. Eloise, he noticed, had not come in overnight, a fact occasioning no surprise. After fixing breakfast for himself he had driven to party headquarters on Sparks Street, where he remained through most of the day, working on details of the general campaign plan he had discussed with the Prime Minister. Since only a janitor and himself were in the building and there were no interruptions, he accomplished a great deal and eventually returned to his own still empty apartment with a sense of satisfaction. Once or twice, earlier on, he had been surprised to find himself distracted by remembering Milly the way she had been the night before. Twice he was tempted to telephone her, but a sense of caution warned him against it. After all, the whole thing was just a passing affair, not to be taken too seriously. In the evening he had read for a while and went to bed early.

And now Christmas had gone. It was 11 AM, December 26th.

'Mr Warrender is available if you'd like him this morning,' Milly Freedeman announced. She had slipped into the Prime Minister's inner office with a coffee tray as his executive assistant left. The executive assistant, an earnest, ambitious young man of independent means named Elliot Prowse, had been coming and going all morning, receiving instructions and reporting their outcome to James Howden in between a steady stream of other callers with appointments. A good deal of the activity, Milly knew, had to do with the forthcoming Washington talks.

'Why should I want Warrender?' A trifle irritably, James Howden looked up from a folder over which he had been poring – one of a series on his desk, prominently marked TOP SECRET and relating to intercontinental defence. Military matters had never interested James Howden overwhelmingly and, even now, he had to compel concentration in himself in order to absorb facts. Occasionally it saddened him that there was so little time nowadays he could devote to social welfare matters, which were once his ruling interest in politics.

Pouring coffee from an aluminium vacuum jug, Milly answered equably, 'I understand you called Mr Warrender the day before the holiday, and he was away.' She added the customary four lumps of sugar and generous cream, then placed the cup carefully on the Prime Minister's blotter with a small plate of chocolate cookies beside it.

James Howden put down the folder, took a cookie, and bit into it. He said approvingly, 'These are better than the last lot. More chocolate.'

Milly smiled. If Howden had been less preoccupied he might have noticed that she seemed unusually radiant this morning, as well as attractively dressed in a brown tweed suit flecked with blue, and a soft blue blouse.

'I remember – I did call,' the Prime Minister said after a pause. 'There was some sort of immigration trouble in Vancouver.' He added hopefully, 'Perhaps it's cleared itself up by now.'

'I'm afraid not,' Milly told him. 'Mr Richardson phoned this morning with a reminder.' She consulted a notebook. 'He asked me to tell you it's a very live issue in the West, and the Eastern newspapers are becoming interested.' She failed to say that Brian Richardson had also added warmly and personally, 'You're a pretty wonderful person, Milly. I've been thinking about it, and we'll talk again soon.'

James Howden sighed. 'I suppose I'd better see Harvey Warrender. You'll have to fit him in somehow; ten minutes should be enough.'

'All right,' Milly said. 'I'll make it this morning.'

Sipping coffee, Howden asked, 'Is there much of a backlog outside?'

Milly shook her head. 'Nothing that won't keep for a while. I've passed on a few urgent things to Mr Prowse.'

'Good.' The Prime Minister nodded approvingly. 'Do that as much as you can, Milly, these next few weeks.'

Sometimes, even now, he had a strange nostalgic feeling about Milly, even though physical desire had evaporated long since. He sometimes wondered how it could all have happened… the affair between them; his own intensity of feeling at the time. There had been the loneliness, of course, which backbench MPs always suffered in Ottawa; the sense of emptiness, with so little to do to fill the long hours when the House was sitting. And, at the time Margaret had been away a good deal… But it all seemed something distant, far away.

'There is one thing and I hate to bother you with it.' Milly hesitated. 'There's a letter from the bank. Another reminder that you're overdrawn.'

Switching his thoughts back, Howden said gloomily, 'I was afraid there would be soon.' As he had when Margaret brought up the subject three days ago, he found himself resentful of the need to deal with something like this at such a time. It was his own fault in a way, he supposed. He knew that he had only to let word leak out among a few of the party's richer supporters and generous American friends, and gifts of money would come in quickly and amply, without strings attached. Other Prime Ministers before him had done the same thing, but Howden had always declined, principally as a matter of pride. His life, he reasoned, had begun with charity in the orphanage and he rejected the idea that after a lifetime's achievement he should become dependent on charity again.

He recalled Margaret's concern about the speed with which their modest savings were disappearing. 'You'd better call the Montreal Trust,' he instructed. 'Find out if Mr Maddox can come to see me for a talk.'

'I thought you might want him, so I checked,' Milly answered. 'The only time you're free is late tomorrow afternoon and he'll come then.'

Howden nodded assent. He was always grateful for Milly's efficient shortcuts.

He had finished the coffee – he liked it near-scalding as well as sweet and creamy – and Milly refilled his cup. Tilting back his padded leather chair, he relaxed consciously, enjoying one of the few unpressured moments of the day. Ten minutes from now he would become intense and preoccupied once more, setting a work pace which his staff found hard to equal. Milly knew this, and over the years had learned to be relaxed herself in these time-out periods, something she knew James Howden liked. Now he said easily, 'Did you read the transcript?'

'Of the Defence Committee?'

Taking another chocolate cookie, Howden nodded.

'Yes,' Milly said. 'I read it.'

'What do you think?'

Milly considered. For all the question's casualness she knew an honest answer was expected. James Howden had once told her complainingly, 'Half the time I try to find out what people are thinking, they don't tell me the truth; only what they believe I'd like to hear.'

'I wondered what we'd have left, as Canadians,' Milly said. 'If it happens – the Act of Union, I mean – I can't see our going back to the way things were before.'

'No,' Howden said, 'I can't either.'

'Well, then, wouldn't it be just the beginning of a swallowing-up process? Until we're part of the United States. Until all our independence has gone.' Even as she asked the question, Milly wondered: would it matter if it were true? What was independence, really, except an illusion which people talked about? No one was truly independent, or ever could be, and the same was true of nations. She wondered how Brian Richardson would feel; she would have liked to talk to him about it now.