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you like veal? The veal is superb. I’m going to have the sweetbreads myself. This is the only place west of the Avenue Georges Cinque where they really know how to handle sweetbreads.”
    Kit, whose idea of lunch was a cheeseburger, no fries, and a vanilla malted, studied the menu intently while St. Yves continued his guided tour of the entrees. When the waiter came over, Kit, in a spirit of rebellion, ordered a small steak, medium rare.
    “The ris de veau a la maréchale , Charles,” St. Yves ordered, closing his menu and tapping it thoughtfully on the table. “With a small salade maison to begin—not on the side, you understand, but before—and perhaps a bottle of the Haut Brion sixty-seven.”
    Charles nodded, extracted the menus, and went off. St. Yves leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared at Kit. “We don’t know much about you,” he said.
    “Who’s we?” Kit asked. “And what do you want to know?” He suddenly felt very much on the defensive. St. Yves had that effect on people.
    “Oh, we know all the usual stuff,” St. Yves said, picking up a fork and revolving it over and over between his hands. “Your birth date, your schooling, college grades, extracurricular activities, the first girl you ever laid, all that stuff. You’re a patriotic, loyal American. But of course with your background you’re not old enough to be anything else. The closest thing to a subversive in your family is your Uncle Harry.”
    “Uncle Harry?” Kit asked.
    “Right. Your mother’s older brother. He joined the Young People’s Socialist League in 1932. Didn’t you know?”
    “No. The subject never came up.” Kit now had no idea of what was going on. What could St. Yves want to know that wasn’t already in his file?
    St. Yves focused his attention on Kit. “What we want to know are your political beliefs,” he said, lacing his long, slender fingers together under his chin. “Your concept of where this country is headed, what its goals should be, and what you feel you should do about it. What I’m asking you, I suppose, is what you think it means to be an American. If this sounds too patriotic, or any bullshit like that, I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t think patriotism is bullshit,” Kit said. “I think sometimes it’s misplaced, and goes over into chauvinism.”
    St. Yves looked warily at Kit. “Who’d you vote for in November?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course.”
    “I will tell you,” Kit said. “I didn’t vote.”
    “Is that straight?” St. Yves said, sounding surprised. “You live in the most political town in the world, work for the President, and you didn’t vote?”
    “That’s right. I feel I have to remain completely non-political. I have to do my job honestly and fairly, no matter what party’s in power and no matter who’s elected president. So I don’t want to get involved with the process to the point that it would matter to me.”
    St. Yves put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned back. “That’s probably the most naive political philosophy I’ve heard espoused since I left the third grade.”
    “You asked me and I told you,” Kit said, the annoyance showing in his voice. “I guess the basic fact is that I’m not that interested in the political process. Most politicians, as far as I can tell, are either idiots or crooks, and yet they keep getting voted back into office. And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it either way.”
    “Don’t get pissed,” St. Yves said. “I didn’t mean to sound disapproving. I just wanted to find out whether you’re for us or against us.”
    “Us?”
    “The President.”
    “I think he’s a good man, and I think he has guts. Going to China took guts.”
    “Right,” St. Yves said. “Hes a gutsy guy. Ah!” The conversation died out while they paused to watch the maître d’ compose a salade and place it in front of St. Yves. “A chef d’oeuvre as always, Charles, thank