In Ottawa, James Howden always thought, it was difficult not to have a sense of history. Especially now that the city -once beautiful and then commercially despoiled – was fast becoming green again: tree-thronged and laced with manicured parkways, thanks to the National Capital Commission. True the government buildings were largely characterless, bearing the stamp of what a critic had called 'the limp hand of bureaucratic art'. But even so there was a natural ruggedness about them, and given time, with natural beauty restored, Ottawa might one day equal Washington as a capital and perhaps surpass it.

Behind him beneath the wide, curved staircase, one of two gilt telephones on an Adam side table chimed softly twice. It was the American Ambassador.

'Hullo, Angry,' James Howden said. 'I hear that your people let the cat out.'

The Hon Phillip Angrove's Bostonian drawl came back. 'I know. Prime Minister, and I'm damned apologetic. Fortunately, though, it's only the cat's head and we still have a firm grip on the body.'

Tm relieved to hear it,' Howden said. 'But we must have a joint statement, you know. Arthur's on his way…'

'He's right here with me now,' the ambassador rejoined. 'As soon as we've downed a couple we'll get on with it, sir. Do you want to approve the statement yourself?'

'No,' Howden said. 'I'll leave it to you and Arthur.'

They talked for a few minutes more, then the Prime Minister replaced the gilt telephone.

Margaret had gone ahead into the big comfortable living-room with its chintz-covered sofas. Empire armchairs, and muted grey drapes. A log fire was burning brightly. She had put on a Kostelanetz recording of Tchaikovsky which played softly. It was the Howdens' favourite kind of music; the heavier classics seldom appealed to them. A few minutes later a maid brought in coffee with a piled plate of sandwiches. At a gesture from Margaret the girl offered the sandwiches to Howden and he took one absently.