"You do."

"Not really. I want Kagle's job."

"That's good, Bob. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Art."

"We'll tell him early next week. You know him pretty well. How would you guess he'll take it?"

"Bad. But he'll do everything to hide it. He may ask to be the one to tell me."

"We'll let him."

"He'll want to take credit. He may even want to be allowed to issue the announcement."

"That will make things easier. You'll have much to put in order."

"I've made a list."

"I'll probably want to add to it, Bob."

"That's okay with me, Art." I laugh lightly (before tendering my gentle wisecrack) and bow my head in a gesture of self-effacement. "I'm not one of these officials who'll resent advice from his superiors."

"Ha, ha. I didn't think so, Bob. You'll run the convention."

"I've begun making plans. I think I know how."

"There's one more thing we've found out about Kagle, Bob," Arthur Baron tells me. "He goes to prostitutes in the afternoon."

"I've gone with him."

"You'll stop, though. Won't you?"

"I already have."

"That's good, Bob. I was sure you would. By the wayr " he adds, pressing my elbow with a conspiratorial wink and chuckling. "They're much better in the evening."

"Ha, ha."

Almost imperceptibly, my relationship with Arthur Baron has altered already in the direction of a closer conversational familiarity. Shrewdly, discreetly, diplomatically, I make no comment to indicate I've noticed the improvement. I've had a talent, thus far, this footman's talent, for being able to decipher what Arthur Baron and others of my betters (Green is my superior, not my better. Kagle is neither) expect of me and the subtle theatrical instinct for letting them observe they are getting it. (I have the footman's fear of losing it and being turned out of my job for betraying a spaniel's eagerness to please. Holloway in my department is that way again now, stopping people, dogging footsteps, fawning aggressively, extorting attention, demanding praise or benign admonishments. He'll break down again soon. They always break down again. I don't know why they even bother to try to come back. Holloway cannot be trusted with important business responsibilities: he lacks the fine genius for servility that I have.) I know that Arthur Baron doesn't want us to invite him back again. My wife doesn't.

"I'm sure she must be counting," my wife has repeated worriedly. "They've had us there twice since we had them here. Three times, if you count that cocktail party they gave for Horace White. I never expected to be invited to that."

"He doesn't."

"I'd be so embarrassed if I ran into them."

"I'm sure."

"I'm glad. I would like to give another nice dinner party soon. I'm glad I don't have to."

Arthur Baron lives not far away in a much better house in a much richer part of Connecticut than I do, although the part of Connecticut we do live in is far from bad. He has more land. (I own one acre, he owns four.) Most of the people around me seem to make more money than I do. Where I live now is perfectly adequate: and when I get my raise and move, it will again be among people who make more money than I do. This is known as upward mobility, a momentous force in contemporary American urban life, along with downward mobility, which is another momentous force in contemporary American urban life. They keep things stirring. We rise and fall like Frisbees, if we get off the ground at all, or pop flies, except we rise slower, drop faster. I am on the way up, Kagle's on the way down. He moves faster. Only in America is it possible to do both at the same time. Look at me. I ascend like a condor, while falling to pieces. Maybe the same thing happens in Russia, but I don't live there. Every river in the world, without exception, flows from north to south as it empties into the sea. Except those that don't, and the laws of the conservation of energy and matter stipulate harshly and impartially that energy and matter can either (sic) be created nor (sic) destroyed.

A lot that has to do with me. My dentist scraping at one tooth in my socket is more painful to me than my wife's cancer will be if she ever gets one. I get corns in the same spot on the little toe of my right foot, no matter what shoes I wear.

Arthur Baron has had us to his home for dinner half a dozen times the past two and a half years (and never serves enough food. We are hungry when we reach home). And we have had him to our house once. We have a good time. He usually will have just one other person from the company, whom I may or may not have met before, and three other amiable couples with occupations unrelated to our own. There is room for just twelve at his dining room table. The evenings are quiet and end before midnight. The subject of Derek has never come up at his house and we tend to feel we could gloss by it without discomfort there if it did. Nothing unpleasant ever comes up; no one's misfortunes are ever mentioned. The fact that they do not serve enough is a prickly trait for us to absorb, for we like both Arthur Baron and his wife and enjoy going there, even though we are uncomfortable. His wife is an unassuming woman with whom we almost feel at ease.

We had Arthur Baron and his wife to our house for dinner just about a year ago (time does fly). And we served too much food. People tend to eat more than they want to at our house. We like to offer guests a choice of meats and desserts. We also like to show we are people of lusty appetite who know how to entertain generously. My wife was troubled awhile that they might take it as a criticism.

"Do it your way, honey," I encouraged her. "Not the way someone else would."

The evening went marvelously. Intuition told me it was the proper time to invite him. (Once we invited Green. He told me he didn't want to come to my house for dinner, and we were relieved. There is an insulting honesty about Green that is refreshing afterward.) Wisely, I did not organize the evening around Arthur Baron. (We would have had the dinner anyway.)

"Yes, Bob?"

"Hello, Art. We're going to have some people over to dinner the third or fourth Saturday from now. We thought it would be nice if you and Lucille could come."

"Love to, Bob. I'll have to check."

"Fine, Art."

Before noon that same day his wife phoned mine to say they were free either weekend and were pleased we had thought of asking them.

They stayed late, and ate and drank more than we would have supposed. (I still wonder with some perplexity about the small amounts of food they prepare when they entertain. I guess they must be hungry too by the time we reach home.) I mixed tangy martinis that everyone drank, and the mood was lightened from the start. I thought of myself as courtly as I stirred and poured. I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror: I was utterly courtly. I wore a courtly smile. (I am vain as a peacock.) I had no one there from the company. I had a copyright lawyer, a television writer, an associate professor of marketing, a computer expert, the owner of a small public relations firm, and an engaging specialist in arbitrage with a leading brokerage, about whose work none of us knew much and all of us were curious (for a while). The wives were all pretty and vivacious. The conversation was lively. There was boisterous laughter. My wife gave recipe tips when asked. The Barons were nearly the last to leave.

"Thanks, Bob. We really enjoyed it."

"Thanks, Art, I'm glad you could come."

My wife and I were aglow and enchanted with our success and made love. The evening went marvelously indeed, but it was written in the atmosphere — and my wily sixth-sense tells me it is still there — that we were not to invite him again for a long time, although it was much more than just okay to have done so then. My wife, a churchgoing Congregationalist, doesn't understand; she is instructed by a minister of God in matters of duty and hospitality. As a registered Republican, though, I know more about protocol.