“Your husband said you love to ride,” I said. “Must be a godsend to have this park so near your home.”

She nodded. “Thirty miles of bridle paths, even a practice ring and hurdles. Saving grace of this goddamned town.”

“I gathered from Mr. Forrestal that you’re not wild about D.C.”

“I hate this fucking hellhole.”

I was glad I was sitting down; such coarse language was unexpected from so refined and stylish a lady. Shit, what was I to think? On the other hand, she was a former chorus girl.

“Do you have a cigarette on you?” she asked suddenly.

“Sorry, no. I don’t smoke.”

“No bad habits, Nate?”

“Not that one.”

She thought that over, then said, “Jim tells me you’re from Chicago.”

“That’s right.”

“I went to the University of Chicago-briefly.”

I grinned at her. “So did I-the same way.”

“When?”

“I don’t know-’24 maybe? Kinda lost track.”

“You were just after me, youngster. I think it was ’20 when I ran off to New York. There was a town.”

“Chicago or New York?”

“Take your pick. Either one is Utopia compared to this shitbucket.”

These occasional profane eruptions, from so chic a source, seemed calculated to me; she seemed to want my attention. Well, she already had that-her husband had paid for it.

“This burg does seem a little dull,” I admitted. “There’s more nightlife at a monastery.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared. “You are so very right! No theater, no fashion, no art! No one to talk to, or anyway no one worth talking to. Nobody but these hypocritical fucking pompous politicians and petty fucking public officials with one hand in your pocket and the other on your ass.”

From over at the signpost, the stallion whinnied, as if underscoring its mistress’ displeasure.