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age, with his money, would have ulcers and live on gruel and collect pornography. Rhein not only knows good food, he likes it. And if you’re that sore at him, all you have to do is learn how to cook.”
    â€œOf course,” she said. “Oooh, I hate him.”
    â€œYou don’t hate him,” Joe said. “You’re jealous.” His voice was cool; there was even a small note of anger. “Isn’t there something a touch, ah, backward, maybe even, let’s say, feudal, about coveting another man’s servant? Maybe we could swap the mare for him.”
    â€œI hate you too,” Helen caid calmly. “You’re right, and I never thought of it, and you make me feel like a stupid bitch.”
    Robert was off tonight. He had left for Rhein an artichoke vinaigrette and an egg-and-Roquefort salad. He had gone to the fights. He liked the fights; he had been desolate when Marcel Cerdan went down in the Azores. He left early on fight nights, dined with friends downtown, and arrived at the arena ten minutes before the first preliminary, which gave him time to go over the evening’s card, overhear the late odds, and start a cigar. Ordinarily he did not smoke; it was a sacrifice he made willingly to his profession. But at the fights he smoked cigars; his profession had given him a strong sense of the fitness of things, and here cigars were meet.
    At seven o’clock Arthur Rhein, like an elf looking for shoes to mend, opened the refrigerator, peeked expectantly within, and smiled. He debated beverage, and groped for a bottle of ale. Robert disapproved of beverage with salad. Rhein admitted him correct, but took advantage of the proviso that was the key to Robert’s gustatory philosophy: what you enjoyed most made the best meal. Robert had been trained to enjoy the classic compositions; but in others divagations were not only tolerated, but approved. Except at large, planned meals, of course. When a casual luncheon guest wanted whisky-soda with his chop, so be it; when there were eight for dinner, Robert was adamant. And he drew the line always at soft drinks. So did Arthur Rhein. It was a marriage made in Lapérouse.
    Rhein had been troubled all afternoon. He made a rule of casting out troubles before a meal, but tonight it was difficult. Tonight he was concerned with man’s inhumanity to man—specifically, with Joe Harrison’s airy, almost disrespectful inhumanity to Arthur Rhein. Rhein knew better than to assume that his millions made him superior. But half a century earlier Rhein had not had those millions, and the acquisition of them could not have been pure luck. Riches implied nothing but high taxes; self-enrichment, on the other hand, might imply a great deal: judgment, talent, shrewdness, foresight. And Harrison persisted in behaving as though he, Rhein, had none of these.
    The artichoke distracted Rhein momentarily. The artichoke was a small perfection, a victory over the forces of barbarism and darkness. Rhein’s heart melted; he felt pleasure in every capillary; he tingled. He swigged at the ale, and knew peace.
    But only momentarily. In 1926, when Rhein had merged his first two transmitting stations, Harrison might have been thirteen years old. Rhein himself had been thirty-five, clever, adventurous, and ambitious. Rhein knew that the young displaced the old; and he was too sensible to deny that he was old; but he felt outraged now when he was made to infer that his place was at board meetings and not in the office. And he was unaware so far that Harrison respected him. He could not see that if Harrison had lacked respect Harrison would not have bothered to argue; Harrison would have agreed politely and gone his own way.
    Rhein was irritated that Harrison had anticipated him, and even more irritated that Harrison had gone, without his knowledge, to Harry Bing. Rhein liked Harry Bing. But it was not the thing to do.
    The mistake had been to keep the board