Schirra's grandiose house toward the open front doors. It had stopped raining, but the 
streets and the sidewalks were still wet, and there was a warm breeze blowing that 
promised more showers before the night was out. Lorie and her chauffeur were standing on 
the steps, and as Gene came nearer, it seemed that she was leaning close to the 
chauffeur's ear and whispering something. Gene hesitated for a moment, but then Lorie 
turned and saw him and smiled. Without a word, the chauffeur left her side and went down 
the steps to collect his car, a glossy black Fleetwood limousine with a coaching lamp on 
the roof. He climbed into it, and waited at the curb with the motor idling-not once 
looking their way, but as watchful and protective as a fierce dog.
    Lorie tied a long red velvet cape around her shoulders and brushed back her hair with 
her hand. "I think my chauffeur's nervous," she grinned. "Mother told him to keep an eye 
on. me, and he doesn't like to let me out of his sight."
    Gene took Lorie's hand. "Is he always as cagey as that?" he asked her. "I get the 
feeling that if I nibbled your ear, he'd be out of that car and beating me into a pulp 
before I could say 'goodbye, Capitol Hill.' "
    Lorie laughed. "He's very good at his job. Mother says he's the most conscientious 
servant she's had for years. He's an expert in kravmaga."
    "Kravmaga? What the hell's that?"
    "It's a kind of self-defense thing, like kung-fu. I think the Israelis invented it. 
You totally dedicate yourself to the destruction of your opponent by whatever means 
possible."
    Gene raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like a slightly less hypocritical version of 
politics."
    They stood on the rainy sidewalk waiting for Gene's car to come around from the car 
park. A footman in yellow livery shuffled around beside them, surreptitiously smoking a 
cigarette. A few hundred yards away, across the grass, the illuminated spire of the 
Washington Monument rose like a spectral tombstone in the damp evening air. A siren 
warbled somewhere over on, M Street.
    "You mustn't blame Mathieu for doing his job," Lorie said.
    "Mathieu? That's your chauffeur?"
    "He's mute, you know. He can't speak a word. He worked for the French secret service 
in Algeria, and the rebels rugged out all his fingernails and cut out his tongue."
    "You're kidding."
    "No, it's true."
    Gene turned his head and looked for a long and thoughtful moment at the Hack 
Cadillac, still idling quietly by the curb nearby. In the driving mirror he could see 
Mathieu's eyes, hard and watchful, as if they were floating by themselves in the air.
    "A thing like that-it must make a guy kind of edgy."
    Lorie nodded. "I suppose so. Is this your car?"
    Gene's white New Yorker was pulled up to the curb, and the footman opened the doors 
for them. Gene pressed a dollar into the discreetly placed palms of both footman and 
carhop and then settled himself down behind the steering wheel.
    "Do you want to direct me?" he asked Lorie.
    Lorie shook her head. "Mathieu will drive on ahead. All you have to do is follow him."
    "No detours?"
    "Not unless you want him chasing after us. And I can assure you, he won't let us get 
away."
    Gene pulled away from the curb, traffic signals flashing. "Doesn't that ever bother 
you? Being kept on a tight rein like that? You're a grown-up girl now."
    She released the catch of her cape and let it fall back from her shoulders. In the 
flickering light of passing streetlamps, he could see the shine on her lips, the intense 
green sparkle of her emerald choker, and the sheen of silk on her breasts. Inside the 
car, that musky perfume of hers seemed even stronger, and for a girl who professed to be 
so quiet and so moral it seemed peculiarly rampant and aggressive. For some reason it 
reminded him of an animal in heat
    "I suppose you find us strange," said" Lorie huskily. "But you must remember that 
we're not Americans. This is not our country. That's why we stay close together and guard 
each other. Apart from that..."
    "Apart from that, what?"
    She lowered her eyes. "Well, we're different, I suppose. And when you're different, 
you tend to keep your own company."
    Ahead of them, the red taillights of Mathieu's limousine turned left, and Gene 
followed. It was starting to rain again, and a few drops spattered the windshield. Gene 
switched on the wipers.
    "Can I ask you something?" he said to Lorie.
    She nodded. "As long as it's not too personal."
    "Well, I guess it is kind of personal, and you don't have to answer if you don't want 
to but it's the sort of question that a guy always thinks about when he meets a girl as 
beautiful as you."
    "You're flattering me again."
    "Damn it, I'm paying you a compliment! Don't people ever pay you compliments? Hasn't 
a man ever said that to you before?"
    She shook her head.
    "Anyway," he said, "that was my question. I wanted to know if you had a steady 
boyfriend. Anyone in tow. I wanted to know if you were tied up with someone, some man, or 
whether you were free."
    Lorie looked away. "Does it matter?" she said.
    Gene shrugged. "Well, I don't know. It matters to some girls. If they're going steady 
with someone, they won't contemplate the possibility of anyone else.
    There's still some loyalty left in the world, although you wouldn't believe it."
    She said nothing for a long while, and even when Gene glanced across at her, she 
didn't turn or smile.
    Eventually, as they were driving past the Watergate, she said softly, "There aren't 
any men. None at all."'
    "None?" he said, Surprised. "Not even an aged admirer who pesters you with dinner 
invitations and buys you emerald chokers?"
    She touched the jewels around her neck. "Nobody bought this. It's a family heirloom. 
And no, there are no old admirers. Not even any young admirers."
    The way she said that made him frown at her in disbelief.
    "Are you saying you haven't any boyfriends at all?"
    "Not only now, Gene, but never."
    He looked ahead at the road, and the glowing rear lights of Mathieu's limousine. He 
found it completely incredible that a girl with Lorie's looks and figure, should never 
have dated a boy. He guessed her age at nineteen or twenty, and most Washington groupies 
by that age had lain on their backs for half, a government department, as well as a minor 
galaxy of congressmen, and senators. He knew she wasn't a groupie, but even the nicest 
girl from the nicest family gets to date one boy, even if he's only a carefully selected 
Harvard frat-tie.
    "You're a virgin?" he asked.
    She lifted her chin and looked at him, and he caught the same aloof self-possession