“I don’t think …” Richard said, with another anxious glance at Annie.

“You’re absolutely right,” Broun said, his hand clamped firmly on Richard’s arm. “Why should your young lady have to be bored by a lot of dry history when she can go to a party instead? Jeff, you’ll keep her company, won’t you? Get her some of those shrimp doodads and some champagne?”

Richard looked at Annie as it he expected her to object, but she didn’t say anything, and I thought he looked relieved.

“Jeff’ll take good care of her,” Broun said heartily, like a man trying to make a deal. “Won’t you, Jeff?”

“I’ll take care of her,” I said, looking at her. “I promise.”

“The dream I’m having trouble with is one Lincoln had two weeks before his assassination,” Broun said, leading Richard firmly up the stairs to his study. “He dreamed he woke up in the White House and heard somebody crying. When he went downstairs …” They disappeared into the roar of noise and people at the top of the stairs. I turned and looked at Annie. She was standing looking up after them.

“Would you like to go up to the party?” I said. “Broun’ll be upset if you don’t have some of the shrimp doodads.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think Richard will be that long.”

“Yeah, he didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about the prospect of analyzing Lincoln’s dreams.” I led the way back into the solarium. “He kept talking about having to leave. Is one of his patients giving him a rough time?”

She went over to the windows and looked out. “Yes,” she said. “Richard told me you’re a historian.”

“Did he also tell you he thinks I’m crazy for spending my life looking up obscure facts that don’t matter to anybody?”