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government had been denounced in America as—what else?—communist, even by Blaise. Caroline had long since given up trying to explain the difference between communism and socialism to Americans.
    The President tasted his martini. “Now that is just about right.” He poured her a glass. They toasted peace.
    “I wouldn’t mind talking to Blum, face to face. Particularly now. But we’re all so cut off from each other. So far apart, geographically. So many misunderstandings. You’re back with Tim Farrell, I gather?”
    “No. No. Just friends, as they say. You were going to ask him to dinner tonight.”
    “If I was, I did.” Franklin laughed. “I’m not sure how much he’ll like Eleanor’s young friends.”
    “But that’s exactly what he wants. He’s making a documentary. About the war. About how Americans feel about the war.”
    The President moved his chair directly across from Caroline’s. He rubbed his eyes; for an instant he looked to be without energy. “I don’t envy him,” he said at last. “A film
now?
When anything can happen.” He shook his head. “Look at Finland. Whoever dreamed that Russia would invade them? Certainly not our State Department,” he added, with an unpleasant smile. “But then whoever dreamed they could defeat a Russian army? For the moment, anyway.” He raised the martini shaker and turned to Caroline. “Another sippy?”
    At that moment two giants, Mr. and Mrs. Melvyn Douglas, appeared in the doorway.
    “Come in, Helen, Mel. What shall I make you?” The President was once again his airy light-hearted social self, as he prepared yet another Roosevelt special, all the while talking to the handsome Helen Douglas while her husband introduced himself to Caroline. She had never found him attractive on the screen—nose too large, lips too thin—but his voice was seductive, and he was also the only American-born movie star who had no difficulty playing high comedy, when allowed. Had he been older, he would have been a perfect leading man for Emma Traxler, the Black Pearl of—where was it her publicity had said she was from? Alsace-Lorraine?
    “I grew up watching your movies,” he said; then frowned. “There I go, you weren’t making movies when I was a kid back in Georgia and you were a child in—where was it?”
    “Washington, D.C. I was the child publisher of the
Tribune
before 1917 and Hollywood and the birth of my dreaded other self, Emma Traxler.”
    “I’ve just met your brother, Blaise.”
    “Did you quarrel?”
    Douglas blinked his eyes; then smiled a thin-lipped smile. “Yes. How did you know?”
    “He doesn’t like the Roosevelts. You do.”
    “And you do?”
    Caroline gave him the Emma Traxler left-three-quarter-right-eyebrow-raisedclose-shot look, quite aware that, with age, she must now resemble the moon’s far side if it had one. “I never said, Mr. Douglas, that Blaise liked me either.”
    He laughed. “One of those families.” The room began to fill up. A pair of bureaucrats, each with a wife, had shyly entered the presence. Franklin was now jovial, as he peddled yet another Roosevelt special—rum, vermouth, and pineapple juice. He seemed to absorb energy from an audience.
    “He
is
an actor,” said Caroline to herself, unaware that she was sharing her not particularly original insight with Douglas, who said, “Of course he is. But one who gets to write his own play.”
    “His? Don’t you think Hitler and Stalin are going to get co-credits for this one?”
    “Certainly not if the Screen Writers Guild arbitrates!”
    Caroline changed the subject; complimented him on a film that he had just made in which, according to the press, the moody Swede, Greta Garbo, had finally laughed on screen. “That was a lot more than I ever did,” said Douglas, raising a practiced eyebrow.
    “Is she so dull?” Caroline was fascinated by Garbo’s androgynous charm.
    “ ‘Selfish’ is more the word.” Why, Caroline wondered, was she herself no