A white intercom telephone near the Prime Minister's seat pinged musically and he answered it. The aircraft captain's voice announced, 'This is Galbraith, sir.'

'Yes, Wing Commander?' Galbraith, a veteran pilot with a reputation for solidity, was usually in command on VIP missions out of Ottawa. He had flown the Howdens many times before.

'We're at cruising height, twenty thousand, and estimating Washington in one hour ten minutes. Weather there is sunny and clear, temperature sixty-five.'

'That's good news,' Howden said. 'It'll be a taste of summer.' He told Margaret about the Washington weather, then said into the phone, 'I understand there'll be a luncheon at the embassy tomorrow. Wing Commander. We shall expect to see you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

James Howden replaced the telephone. While he had been speaking the RCAF steward had reappeared, this time with coffee trays and sandwiches. There was also a single glass of grape juice. Margaret pointed to it. 'If you really like that so much, I'll order some at home.'

He waited until the steward had gone, then lowered his voice. 'I'm beginning to loathe the stuff. I once said I liked it and word seems to have passed around. Now I understand why Disraeli hated primroses.'

'But I always thought he loved primroses,' Margaret said. 'Weren't they his favourite flower?'

Her husband shook his head emphatically. 'Disraeli said so just on one occasion, out of politeness to Queen Victoria, who had sent him some. But afterwards, people showered primroses on him until the mere sight of one could drive him to distraction. So you see, political myths die hard.' Smiling, he took the grape juice, opened a door of the rear of the cabin and poured it down the toilet.

Margaret said thoughtfully, 'You know, I sometimes think you're rather like Disraeli, though a little fiercer perhaps.' She smiled. 'At least you have the nose for it.'

'Yes,' he agreed, 'and this old craggy face of mine has been a trademark.' He fondled his eagle-beak nose, then said re-miniscently, 'It used to surprise me when people said I appeared fierce, but after a while, when I learned to switch it on and off, it became quite useful.'

'This is nice,' Margaret said, 'being by ourselves for a while. How long do we have before Washington?'

He grimaced. 'No longer than this, I'm afraid. I have to talk to Nesbitson before we land.'

'Do you really, Jamie?' It was more an entreaty than a question.

He said regretfully, 'I'm sorry, my dear,'

Margaret sighed. 'I thought it was too good to last. Well, I'll lie down so you can be private.' She got up, gathering her bag and hat. At the doorway of the little bedroom she turned. 'Are you going to bully him?'

'Probably not – unless I have to.'

'I hope you don't,' Margaret said seriously. 'He's such a sad old man. I always think he should be in a wheel chair with a blanket, and another old soldier pushing.'

The Prime Minister smiled broadly. 'All retired generals should be like that. Unfortunately they either want to write books or get into politics.'

When Margaret had gone he buzzed for the steward and sent a courteous message asking General Nesbitson to join him.

'You're looking extremely fit, Adrian,' James Howden said.

From the depths of the soft chair which Margaret had vacated earlier, his pink pudgy hands nursing a scotch and soda, Adrian Nesbitson nodded in pleased agreement. 'I've been feeling first-class these past few days. Prime Minister. Seem to have thrown off that damned catarrh at last.'

'I'm delighted to hear it. I think you were overdoing things for a while. In fact we all were. It made us impatient with each other.' Howden studied his Defence Minister carefully. The old man really did look healthier, distinguished even, despite increasing baldness and the trace of resemblance to Mr Five-by-Five. The thick white moustache helped; carefully trimmed, it added an aura of dignity to the square-jawed face which still retained a hint of soldierly authority. Perhaps, Howden thought, the course he had been considering might work. But he remembered Brian Richardson's warning: 'Go easy on the bargaining; the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'

'Impatient or not,' Nesbitson said, 'I still can't share your views on this Act of Union idea. I'm sure we can get what we want from the Yanks without giving so much away.'

James Howden willed himself to calmness, ignoring, in his mind, a ground swell of anger and frustration. Nothing, he knew, would be achieved by loss of control, by shouting aloud as impulse urged: 'For God's sake wake up! Wake up and acknowledge the obvious: that it's desperately late and there isn't time for ancient weary nostrums.' Instead he said placatingly, 'I'd like you to do something for me, Adrian, if you will.'

There was a trace of hesitancy before the old man asked, 'What is it?'

'Go over everything in your mind: what the situation is likely to be; the time we have available; what was said the other day; then the alternatives, and your own conscience.'

'I've already done it.' The answer was determined.

'But once again?' Howden was at his most persuasive. 'As a personal favour to me?'

The old man had finished his scotch. It had warmed him and he put the glass down. 'Well,' he conceded, 'I don't mind doing that. But I warn you my answer will still be the same: we must keep our national independence – all of it.'

'Thank you,' James Howden said. He rang for the steward and when he appeared, 'Another scotch and soda, please, for General Nesbitson.'

When the second drink arrived Nesbitson sipped it, then leaned back, surveying the private cabin. He said approvingly, with something of the old military bark in his voice, 'This is a damn fine setup, PM, if I may say so.'

It was the opening James Howden had hoped for.

'It isn't bad,' he acknowledged, his fingers toying with the fresh glass of grape juice which the steward had brought, along with the Defence Minister's scotch. 'I don't use it a great deal, though. This is more the Governor General's aeroplane than mine.'

'Is that so?' Nesbitson seemed surprised. 'You mean that Sheldon Griffiths gets to ride around like this?'

'Oh yes, whenever he wants.' Howden's voice was elaborately casual. 'After all, the GG is Her Majesty's representative. He's entitled to rather special treatment, don't you think?'

'I suppose so.' The old man's expression was bemused.

Again casually, as if their conversation had reminded him, Howden said, 'I expect you'd heard that Shel Griffiths is retiring this summer. He's had seven years at Government House and feels he'd like to step down.'

'I'd heard something of the sort,' Nesbitson said.

The Prime Minister sighed. 'It's always a problem when a Governor General retires – finding the best man to succeed him: someone with the right kind of experience who is willing to serve. One has to remember that it's the highest honour the country can award.'

As Howden watched, the older man took a generous sip of scotch. 'Yes,' he said carefully, 'it certainly is.'

'Of course,' Howden said, 'the job has disadvantages. There's a good deal of ceremonial – guards of honour everywhere, cheering crowds, artillery salutes, and so on.' He added lightly, 'The GG rates twenty-one guns, you know – as many as the Queen.'

'Yes,' Nesbitson said softly, 'I know.'

'Naturally,' Howden continued, as if thinking aloud, 'it needs a special brand of experience to handle that kind of thing well. Someone with a military background usually does it best.'

The old warrior's lips were slightly parted. He moistened them with his tongue. 'Yes,' he said, 'I expect that's true.'

'Frankly,' Howden said, 'I'd always hoped that you might take it on someday.'