'Jamie, dear,' Margaret said, 'Harvey Warrender doesn't have some hold over you, does he?'

'Of course not!' Then, wondering if he had been a shade too emphatic, 'It's just that I don't want to be rushed into a hasty decision. We'll see what reaction there is tomorrow. After all, it was just our own people who were there.'

He felt Margaret's eyes upon him and wondered if she knew that he had lied.

They entered the big stone mansion – official residence of Prime Minister for his term of office – by the awning-shielded main front door. Inside, Yarrow, the steward, vast them and took their coats. He announced, 'The American Ambassador has been trying to reach you, sir. The embassy called twice and stated the matter was urgent.'

James Howden nodded. Probably Washington had learned of the press leak too. If so, it would make Arthur Lexington's assignment that much easier. 'Wait for five minutes,' he instructed, 'then let the switchboard know that I'm home.'

'We'll have coffee in the drawing-room, Mr Yarrow,' Margaret said. 'And some sandwiches, please, for Mr Howden; he missed the buffet.' She stopped in the main-hall powder-room to arrange her hair.

James Howden had gone ahead, through the series of hallways to the third hall, with its big french doors overlooking the river and the Gatineau Hills beyond. It was a sight which always enraptured him and even at night, oriented by distant pin-point lights, he could visualize it: the wide wind-flecked Ottawa River; the same river which the adventurer Etienne Brule had navigated three centuries and a half before; and afterwards Champlain; and later the missionaries and traders, plying their legendary route westward to the Great Lakes and the fur-rich North. And beyond the river lay the distant Quebec shoreline, storied and historic, witness to many changes: much that had come, and much that would one day end.

In Ottawa, James Howden always thought, it was difficult not to have a sense of history. Especially now that the city -once beautiful and then commercially despoiled – was fast becoming green again: tree-thronged and laced with manicured parkways, thanks to the National Capital Commission. True the government buildings were largely characterless, bearing the stamp of what a critic had called 'the limp hand of bureaucratic art'. But even so there was a natural ruggedness about them, and given time, with natural beauty restored, Ottawa might one day equal Washington as a capital and perhaps surpass it.

Behind him beneath the wide, curved staircase, one of two gilt telephones on an Adam side table chimed softly twice. It was the American Ambassador.

'Hullo, Angry,' James Howden said. 'I hear that your people let the cat out.'

The Hon Phillip Angrove's Bostonian drawl came back. 'I know. Prime Minister, and I'm damned apologetic. Fortunately, though, it's only the cat's head and we still have a firm grip on the body.'

Tm relieved to hear it,' Howden said. 'But we must have a joint statement, you know. Arthur's on his way…'

'He's right here with me now,' the ambassador rejoined. 'As soon as we've downed a couple we'll get on with it, sir. Do you want to approve the statement yourself?'

'No,' Howden said. 'I'll leave it to you and Arthur.'

They talked for a few minutes more, then the Prime Minister replaced the gilt telephone.

Margaret had gone ahead into the big comfortable living-room with its chintz-covered sofas. Empire armchairs, and muted grey drapes. A log fire was burning brightly. She had put on a Kostelanetz recording of Tchaikovsky which played softly. It was the Howdens' favourite kind of music; the heavier classics seldom appealed to them. A few minutes later a maid brought in coffee with a piled plate of sandwiches. At a gesture from Margaret the girl offered the sandwiches to Howden and he took one absently.

When the maid had gone he untied his white tie, loosened the stiff collar, then joined Margaret by the fire. He sank gratefully into a deep overstuffed chair, hooked a footstool nearer, and lifted both feet on to it. With a deep sigh: 'This is the life,' he said. 'You, me… no one else…' He lowered his chin and out of habit stroked the tip of his nose.

Margaret smiled faintly. 'We should try it more often, Jamie.'

'We will; we really will,' he said earnestly. Then, his tone changing, 'I've some news. We'll be going to Washington quite soon. I thought you'd like to know.'

Pouring from a Sheffield coffee service his wife looked up. 'It's rather sudden, isn't it?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'But some pretty important things have come up. I have to talk with the President.'

'Well,' Margaret said, 'fortunately I've a new dress.' She paused thoughtfully. 'Now I must buy some shoes and I'll need a matching bag; gloves too.' A worried look crossed her face. 'There'll be time, won't there?'

'Just about,' he said, then laughed at the incongruity.

Margaret said decisively, 'I'll go to Montreal for a day's shopping right after the holiday. You can always get so much more there than in Ottawa. By the way, how are we for money?'

He frowned, 'It isn't too good; we're overdrawn at the bank. We shall have to cash some more bonds, I expect.'

'Again?' Margaret seemed worried. 'We haven't many left.'

'No. But you go ahead.' He regarded his wife affectionately. 'One shopping trip won't make all that difference.'

'Well… if you're sure.'

'I'm sure.'

But the only thing he was really sure of, Howden thought, was that no one would sue the Prime Minister for slow payment. Shortage of money for their personal needs was a constant source of worry. The Howdens had no private means beyond modest savings from his time in law practice, and it was characteristic of Canada – a national small-mindedness persisting in many places – that the country paid its leaders meanly.

There was biting irony, Howden had often thought, in the fact that a Canadian Prime Minister, guiding his nation's destiny, received less in salary and allowances than a US congressman. He had no official car, providing his own from an inadequate allowance, and even provision of a house was something comparatively new. As recently as 1950 the then Prime Minister, Louis St Laurent, had been obliged to live in a two-room apartment, so small that Madame St Laurent had stored the family preserves under her bed. Moreover, after a lifetime of parliamentary service, the most an ex-Prime Minister could expect to receive on retirement was three thousand dollars a year from a contributory pension scheme. One result for the nation in the past had been that Prime Ministers tended to ding to office in old age. Others retired to penury and the charity of friends. Cabinet Ministers and MPs fared even less well. It's a remarkable thing, Howden thought, that so many of us stay honest. In a remote way he sympathized a little with

Harvey Warrender for what he had done.

'You'd have done better to marry a businessman,' he told Margaret. 'Second vice presidents have more cash for spending.'

'I suppose there've been other compensations.' Margaret smiled. Thank God, he thought, we have had a good marriage.'

Political life could bleed you of so many things in return for power – sentiment, illusions, integrity even – and without the warmth of a woman close to him a man could become a hollow shell. He brushed aside the thought of Milly Freedeman, though with a sense of nervousness he had experienced earlier on.

'I was thinking the other day,' he said, 'about that time your father found us. Do you remember?'

'Of course. Women always remember those things. I thought it was you who'd forgotten.'

It had been forty-two years before in the western foothills city of Medicine Hat, himself twenty-two – the product of an orphanage school and now a new-hatched lawyer without clients or immediate prospects. Margaret had been eighteen, the eldest of seven girls, all daughters of a cattle auctioneer who, outside his work, was a dour, uncommunicative man. By the standards of those days Margaret's family had been well-to-do, compared with James Howden's penury at the end of his schooling.