The old man's eyes were wide. 'Me?' His voice was barely audible. 'Me?'

'Well,' Howden said, as if dismissing the thought. 'It's come at the wrong time, I know. You don't want to leave the Cabinet and I certainly wouldn't want to lose you.'

Nesbitson made a half-movement as if to rise from the cabin seat, then subsided. The hand which held the glass was trembling. He swallowed in an attempt to keep his voice under control and succeeded partially. 'Matter of fact, been thinking for some time of getting out of politics. Sometimes a bit trying at my age.'

'Really, Adrian?' The Prime Minister allowed himself to sound surprised. 'I'd always assumed you'd be working with us for a long time to come.' He stopped to consider. 'Of course, if you did accept, it would solve a lot of problems. I don't mind telling you that as I see it, after the Act of Union there'll be a difficult time for the country. We shall need a sense of unity and a continuance of national feeling. Personally, I see the office of Governor General – assuming it's entrusted to the right hands – as contributing a great deal towards that.'

For a moment he wondered if he had gone too far. As he had spoken, the old man's eyes had risen, meeting his own directly. It was hard to read what they contained. Was it contempt; or unbelief; or even both, with a mingling of ambition? One thing could be counted on. Though in some ways Adrian Nesbitson was a fool, he was not so obtuse that he could fail to grasp what was being offered: a. deal, with the highest possible price for his own political support.

It was the old man's assessment of the prize that James Howden counted on. Some men, he knew, would never covet the Governor Generalship on any terms; for them it would be a penalty rather than reward. But to a military mind, loving ceremony and pomp, ii was the glistening ultimate ideal.

James Howden had never believed the cynic's dictum that all men have their price. In his lifetime he had known individuals who could not be bought, either with wealth or honours, or even the temptation – to which so many succumbed -to do good for their fellow men. But most who were in politics had a price of one kind or another; they had to have in order to survive. Some people preferred to use euphemisms like 'expediency' or 'compromise', but in the end it amounted to the same thing. The question was: had he gauged correctly the price of Adrian Nesbitson's support.

The inner struggle was written on the old man's face: a sequence of expressions, swift-changing like a child's kaleidoscope in which doubt, pride, shame, and longing were conjoined…

He could hew the guns in memory… the bark of German 88s and answering fire… a sunstreaked morning; Antwerp behind, the Scheldt ahead… the Canadian Division clambering, clawing, moving forward; then slowing, wavering, ready to turn away…

It was the pivot of battle and he had commandeered the jeep, beckoned the piper, and ordered the driver forward. To the skirl of pipes from the back seat he had stood, facing the German guns, leading, cajoling, and the wavering ranks had reassembled. He had urged stragglers on, cursing with foul oaths, and the men had cursed him back and followed.

Din, dust, motors gunned, the smell of cordite and oil, cries of wounded… The movement forward, slow at first, then faster… The wonderment in men's eyes – at himself, upstanding, proud, a target no enemy gunner could miss…

It was the ultimate moment of glory. It had been hopeless but they had snatched back victory. It had been suicidal but wondrously he had survived…

They had called him the Mad General and the Fighting Fool, and afterwards a slim frail man with a stutter, whom he revered, had pinned on a medal at Buckingham Palace.

But now the years had gone, and memories with them; and few remembered the moment of glory, and fewer cared. No one called him, any more, the Fighting Fool. If they called him anything they omitted the 'Fighting'.

Sometimes, however briefly, he longed for the taste of glory 'again.

With a trace of hesitancy Adrian Nesbitson said, 'You seem very sure about this Act of Union, Prime Minister. Are you certain it will go through?'

'Yes, I am. It will go through because it has to.' Howden kept his face and voice serious.

'But there'll be opposition.' The old man frowned in concentration.

'Naturally. But in the end, when need and urgency are seen, it will make no difference.' Howden's voice took on a note of persuasion. 'I know your first feeling has been to oppose this plan, Adrian, and we all respect you for it. I suppose, too, that if you felt you must continue to oppose, we would be obliged to part company politically.'

Nesbitson said gruffly, 'I don't see the need for that.'

'There is no need,' Howden said. 'Particularly when, as Governor-General, you could do far more to serve the country than you ever could from the political wilderness.'

'Well,' Nesbitson said; he was studying his hands. 'I suppose when you look at it like that…'

It's all so simple, Howden thought. Patronage, the power of bestowal, brings most things within reach. Aloud he said, 'If you're agreeable I'd like to notify the Queen as soon as possible. I'm sure Her Majesty will be delighted with the news.'

With dignity Adrian Nesbitson inclined his head. 'As you wish. Prime Minister.'

They had risen to their feet and shook hands solemnly. 'I'm glad; very glad,' James Howden said. He added informally, 'Your appointment as Governor General will be announced in June. At least we shall have you in the Cabinet until then, and your campaigning with us through the election will mean a great deal.' He was summing up, making clear without any shadow of misunderstanding what they had agreed upon. For Adrian Nesbitson there would be no bolting from the Government, no criticism of the Act of Union. Instead, Nesbitson would fight the election with the remainder of the party -supporting, endorsing, sharing responsibility…

James Howden waited for dissent, if any. There was none.

A moment or two earlier the note of the aircraft engines had changed. Now they were descending evenly and the land below was no longer snow covered, but a patchwork quilt of browns and greens. The intercom phone gave its gentle ping and the Prime Minister answered.

Wing Commander Galbraith's voice announced, 'We'll be landing in Washington in ten minutes, sir. We have priority clearance right on down and I've been asked to tell you that the President is on his way to the airport.'

After take-off of the Prime Minister's flight Brian Richardson and Milly drove back from Uplands Airport in Richardson's Jaguar. Through most of the journey into Ottawa the party director was silent, his face set grimly, his body tense with anger. He handled the Jaguar – which normally he gentled lovingly – as though it were responsible for the abortive press conference on the airport ramp. More than others, perhaps, he could already visualize the hollowness of James Howden's statement about Immigration and Henri Duval as they would appear in print. Even more unfortunate, Richardson fumed, the Government – in the person of the Prime Minister – had taken a stand from which it would be exceedingly difficult to retreat.

Once or twice after leaving the airport Milly had glanced sideways but, sensing what was in her companion's mind, she refrained from comment. But nearing the city limits after a particularly savage cornering, she touched Richardson's arm. No words were necessary.

The party director slowed, turned his head and grinned. 'Sorry, Milly. I was letting off steam.'

'I know.' The reporter's questioning at the airport had distressed Milly too, aware as she was of the secret restraint upon James Howden.