“Nice-looking boys,” I said.

He nodded and turned the photo back his way, never mentioning them by name. To call this guy a cold fish was to give a dead mackerel a bad rap.

“Jo did much better when we lived on Long Island,” he said, leaning back in his swivel chair, puffing at his pipe. “She’s a wonderful horsewoman, a frequent prizewinner, and in Manhattan she was able to pursue her various other interests … theater, fabrics, flower arrangement, interior decoration.”

“This was back in your Wall Street days.”

He nodded, then shrugged, barely. “I was busy with my work and she was content to run with her circle, to ‘21’ or wherever. Of course, even before I met her she had quite an array of unusual friends-George Gershwin, P. G. Wodehouse, Eddie Cantor, Bob Benchley, Jack O’Hara.”

I tried not to look impressed.

“So you’ve gone your separate ways for some time now,” I said, trying to lay the groundwork for the inevitable suspicions of infidelity I’d surely been summoned to confirm.

“Yes, and we’ve both liked it that way. The problem is … well, actually, Nate, there are two problems. The first is this town … Washington, D.C. It’s been an enormous strain on Jo, trading in Long Island and Manhattan, horse shows and cafe society, for this dreary parade of politics.”

This didn’t seem to be heading where I expected.

Forrestal was shaking his head, somberly. “Such a different social milieu, here, such a narrow focus-the cocktail and dinner parties in this town don’t dwell on the arts, it’s all public issues and campaign talk.”

“Noel Coward and Cole Porter don’t come up much,” I said.

“Not as regularly as Robert Taft and Wendell Willkie.” This dry reply was surprisingly close to humor. “Jo’s dislike of Washington has exacerbated her other problem … drinking.”