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forty-nine percent of that. He raised more money, and negotiated an overdraft running into seven figures. The borrowing kept the organization alive, but the interest—rising fast through the decade—ate up what little profit there was.
    Meanwhile, Derek Hamilton cultivated an ulcer.
    The rescue program had been inaugurated almost a year ago. Credit had been tightened in an attempt to reduce the overdraft; costs had been cut by every means possible from cancellation of advertising campaigns to utilization of print-roll off-cuts for stationery. Hamilton was running a tight ship now; but inflation and the economic slump ran faster. The six-month results had been expected to show the world that Hamilton Holdings had turned the corner. Instead they demonstrated further decline.
    He patted his face dry with a warm towel, splashed on cologne, and returned to the bedroom. Ellen was dressed, sitting in front of the mirror, making up her face. She always managed to dress and undress while her husband was out of the bedroom: it occurred to him that he had not seen her naked for years. He wondered why. Had she run to seed, the fifty-five-year-old skin wrinkling and the once-firm flesh sagging? Would nakedness destroy the illusion of desirability? Perhaps, but he suspected something more complex. It was obscurely connected with the way his own body had aged, he thought, as he climbed into his cavernous underpants. She was always decently clad; therefore he never lusted after her; therefore she never had to reveal how undesirable she found him. Such a combination of deviousness and sensitivity would be characteristic.
    She said: “What are you going to do?”
    The question caught him off balance. He thought at first that she must know what he was thinking, and be referring to that; then he realized she was continuing the conversation about the business. He fastened his suspenders, wondering what to tell her. “I’m not sure,” he said eventually.
    She peered closely into the mirror, doing something to her eyelashes. “Sometimes I wonder what you want out of life.”
    He stared at her. Her upbringing had taught her to be indirect and never to ask personal questions, for seriousness and emotion spoiled parties and caused ladies to faint. It would have cost her considerable effort to inquire about the purpose of someone’s existence.
    He sat on the edge of his bed and spoke to her back. “I must cut out brandy, that’s all.”
    “I’m sure you know it has nothing to do with what you eat and drink.” She applied lipstick, contorting her mouth to spread it evenly. “It began nine years ago, and your father died ten years ago.”
    “I’ve got printing ink in my blood.” The response came formally, like a catechism. The conversation would have seemed dislocated to an eavesdropper, but they knew its logic. There was a code: the death of his father meant his assumption of control of the business; his ulcer meant his business problems.
    She said: “You haven’t got ink in your veins. Your father had, but you can’t stand the smell of the old works.”
    “I inherited a strong business, and I want to bequeath to my sons an even stronger one. Isn’t that what people of our class are supposed to do with their lives?”
    “Our sons aren’t interested in what we leave them. Michael is building his own business from scratch, and all Andrew wants to do is vaccinate the whole of the African continent against chicken pox.”
    He could not tell how serious she was now. The things she was doing to her face made her expession unreadable. No doubt it was deliberate. Almost everything she did was deliberate.
    He said: “I have a duty. I employ more than two thousand people, and many more jobs are directly dependent upon the health of my companies.”
    “I think you’ve done your duty. You kept the firm going during a time of crisis—not everyone managed that. You’ve sacrificed your health to it; and you’ve given it ten years of your