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Myself, when I want to forget the world, I take an hour at the billiard table.” With that, he walked to the pool and plunged in and came up shouting, “Cold—cold!”
    Leonard managed to smile and say, “You see, he never saw me. Never knew I was here.”

SIX
    R ichard Cromwell swam two full lengths of the long pool before he realized that he had done an utterly deplorable thing; except for “good morning,” he had not said a word directly to his son, whom he had not seen for two months. He was taken sick at the thought. How could he have done anything like that? It was not in his nature, and never before had he done anything like this—or had he? He tried to examine himself, to roll back his memory and make a picture of how he had treated his son through the years; but it was too difficult while he was swimming, and after the fourth length, he pulled himself out of the water hoping to repair the situation.
    They had gone. What now? He loved his son, he loved both his kids; he threw this declaration of his feelings at himself, muttering in his mind, Just don’t tell me I don’t love my kids. Well, it was not easy to love Leonard. Other sons related to their fathers, played ball with them, rolled in the grass with them, went walking with them. Yes, there were times he could get Leonard to walk with him; he could count the times on the fingers of his hands; but that didn’t mean he didn’t love his son, nor did it mean that his son didn’t love him. Or did his son love him? It had never occurred to him to ask himself that question. The boy was at prep school, the boy was at college, the senator was in Washington. I do my best, his apology to himself. But what now? What could he do now?

SEVEN
    A t ten o’clock, Dolly joined Ellen in the kitchen to go over the menu for tonight’s dinner. In all the years that Ellen and Mac had worked for her, Dolly had never found a way to an easy relationship. She had grown up with servants, but they were white servants, and her mother had a distant, imperious way with them, a way that came from an era when the poor were poor and lived and died with it, and the rich were rich by the grace of God. But when it came down to black servants and today, a difference appeared.
    There was a difference, subtle, but always there, as Dolly spelled it out to her Washington, D.C. analyst. He was one of the most expensive analysts in Washington, charging one hundred and fifty dollars for his fifty-minute hour, and with enough positive reputation to back that up. He had at least two dozen patients who were wives to elected and appointed officials in high places, and Dolly often felt that the world might be at least slightly improved if the husbands were to take their wives’ places. She irritated Dr. Philip Westfield when she referred to this. She irritated Dr. Westfield in other ways too—which was not supposed to be the case with a bright and reputable psychiatrist, and when she got too deeply under his skin, he ceased to be a Freudian listener and spoke out. As once when he said, “You make too much of this black business, we all recognize it. We live with it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean—you live with it? Blacks live with it. They suffer, not you.” That finished her analysis for what it was worth. She decided that if she stayed out of Washington for a maximum number of days, it would be cheaper and more effective than analysis.
    Apropos of her fluttering memories, she asked Ellen whether she had ever known anyone who was analysed, and to her surprise, Ellen replied that her daughter was taking courses in psychology, and that after she had produced two children, and the store was doing well enough to hire a pharmacist, she’d like to go in for therapy.
    â€œGood! Encourage her. Now let’s get down to work,” Dolly said. “You know, we’re dealing with eleven now. The secretary of state and an