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important. The reputation of the firm, at least in irony, was riding on them.
    Two months before the case was to come to trial they quit Weyland, Braun. Frank sat down at the polished table for Sunday lunch. His father was one of the best men in the city. There is a kind of lawyer you trust and who becomes your friend. “What happened?” he wanted to know.
    “We’re starting our own firm,” Frank said.
    “What about the case you’ve been working on? You can’t leave them with a litigation you’ve spent years preparing.”
    “We’re not. We’re taking it with us,” Frank said.
    There was a moment of dreadful silence.
    “Taking it with you? You can’t. You went to one of the best schools, Frank. They’ll sue you. You’ll ruin yourself.”
    “We thought of that.”
    “Listen to me,” his father said.
    Everyone said that, his mother, his Uncle Cook, friends. It was worse than ruin, it was dishonor. His father said that.
    Hardmann Roe never went to trial, as it turned out. Six weeks later there was a settlement. It was for thirty-eight million, a third of it their fee.
    His father had been wrong, which was something you could not hope for. They weren’t sued either. That was settled, too. In place of ruin there were new offices overlooking Bryant Park which from above seemed like a garden behind a dark château, young clients, opera tickets, dinners in apartments with divorced hostesses, surrendered apartments with books and big, tiled kitchens.
    The city was divided, as he had said, into those going up and those coming down, those in crowded restaurants and those on the street, those who waited and those who did not, those with three locks on the door and those rising in an elevator from a lobby with silver mirrors and walnut paneling.
    And those like Mrs. Christie who was in the intermediate state though looking assured. She wanted to renegotiate the settlement with her ex-husband. Frank had leafed through the papers. “What do you think?” she asked candidly.
    “I think it would be easier for you to get married again.”
    She was in her fur coat, the dark lining displayed. She gave a little puff of disbelief. “It’s not that easy,” she said.
    He didn’t know what it was like, she told him. Not long ago she’d been introduced to someone by a couple she knew very well. “We’ll go to dinner,” they said, “you’ll love him, you’re perfect for him, he likes to talk about books.”
    They arrived at the apartment and the two women immediately went into the kitchen and began cooking. What did she think of him? She’d only had a glimpse, she said, but she liked him verymuch, his beautiful bald head, his dressing gown. She had begun to plan what she would do with the apartment which had too much blue in it. The man—Warren was his name—was silent all evening. He’d lost his job, her friend explained in the kitchen. Money was no problem, but he was depressed. “He’s had a shock,” she said. “He likes you.” And in fact he’d asked if he could see her again.
    “Why don’t you come for tea, tomorrow?” he said.
    “I could do that,” she said. “Of course. I’ll be in the neighborhood,” she added.
    The next day she arrived at four with a bag filled with books, at least a hundred dollars worth which she’d bought as a present. He was in pajamas. There was no tea. He hardly seemed to know who she was or why she was there. She said she remembered she had to meet someone and left the books. Going down in the elevator she felt suddenly sick to her stomach.
    “Well,” said Frank, “there might be a chance of getting the settlement overturned, Mrs. Christie, but it would mean a lot of expense.”
    “I see.” Her voice was smaller. “Couldn’t you do it as one of those things where you got a percentage?”
    “Not on this kind of case,” he said.
    It was dusk. He offered her a drink. She worked her lips, in contemplation, one against the other. “Well, then, what can I