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‘ladylike’ manner.
    When
the applause had faded away, the headmistress raised and lowered her hands to
indicate that the girls should be seated again, which they did with the minimum
of noise. She then walked over to the lectern and gave an unscripted eulogy on
T. Hamilton McKenzie that would have surely impressed the Nobel Committee. She
talked of Edward Zeir, the founder of modern plastic surgery, of J.R. Wolte and
Wilhelm Krause, and reminded her pupils that T. Hamilton McKenzie had followed
in their great tradition by advancing the still-burgeoning science. She said
nothing about Sally and her many achievements while at the school, although it
had been in her original script. It was still possible to be punished for
breaking school rules even if you had just won an endowed national scholarship.
    When
the headmistress returned to her place in the centre of the stage, T. Hamilton McKenzie
made his way to the lectern. He looked down at his notes, coughed, and then
began his dissertation.
    ‘Most
of you in the audience, I should imagine, think plastic surgery is about
straightening noses, removing double chins and getting rid of bags from under
your eyes. That, I can assure you, is not plastic but cosmetic surgery. Plastic
surgery,’ he continued – to the disappointment, his wife suspected, of most of
those seated in front of him – ‘is something else.’ He then lectured for forty
minutes on z-plasty, homograting, congenital malformation and third-degree
burns without once raising his head.
    When
he finally sat down, the applause was not quite as loud as it had been when he
had entered the room. T. Hamilton McKenzie assumed that was because showing
their true feelings would have been considered ‘unladylike’.
    On
returning to the headmistress’s study, Joni asked the secretary if there had
been any news of Sally.
    ‘Not
that I am aware of,’ replied the secretary, ‘but she might have been seated in
the hall.’
    During
the lecture, versions of which Joni had heard a hundred times before, she had
scanned every face in the room, and knew that her daughter was not among them.
    More
sherry was poured, and after a decent interval T. Hamilton McKenzie announced
that they ought to be getting back. The headmistress nodded her agreement and
accompanied her guests to their car. She thanked the surgeon for a lecture of
great insight, and waited at the bottom of the steps until the car had
disappeared from view.
    ‘I
have never known such behaviour in all my days,’ she declared to her secretary.
‘Tell Miss McKenzie to report to me before chapel tomorrow. The first thing I
want to know is why she cancelled the car I arranged for her.’
    Scott
Bradley also gave a lecture that evening, but in his case only sixteen students
attended, and none of them was under the age of thirty-five. Each was a senior
CIA field officer, and as fit as any quarterback in America. When they talked
of logic, it had a more practical application than the one suggested when Scott
lectured his younger students at Yale.
    These
men were all operating in the front line, stationed right across the globe.
Often Professor Bradley pressed them to go over, detail by detail, decisions
they had made under pressure, and whether those decisions had achieved the
result they’d originally hoped for.
    They
were quick to admit their mistakes. There was no room for personal pride – only
pride in the service was considered acceptable. When Scott had first heard this
sentiment he thought they were being corny, but after nine years of working
with them in the classroom and in the gym, he’d learned otherwise.
    For
over “an hour Bradley threw test cases at them, at the same time suggesting
ways of how to dunk logically, always weighing known facts with subjective
judgement before reaching any firm conclusion.
    Over
the past nine years, Scott had learned as much from them as they had from him,
but he still enjoyed helping them put his knowledge to practical