As he maneuvered to the table, he noticed a man, about seventy, with a familiar profile. Joe realized that he was Mo's father. "Excuse me," Joe said, reaching for a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "I was just thinking about taxes during the reign of Caesar Augustus. Would you have an opinion on that?"
"Ha, ha. A lot depended on who was doing the collecting. Are you looking for a system to replace the I.R.S.?"
"It's time, don't you think? I'm Joe Burke, a friend of your daughter's. I read your book."
"Arthur Soule," he said, shaking hands. "You've got endurance."
"I enjoyed it."
"Actually . . . " He took a sip of wine. "I've come to believe that systems matter less than the people who run them." He had a dapper air, amused and ironic.
"I couldn't agree more," Joe said.
The two carried on, getting into the stock market and economics in general. Arthur seconded Henry Hazlitt's argument that selective tax breaks were almost always counterproductive when seen in the context of the society as a whole. From time to time Joe looked for Rhiannon. She was moving slowly about the main room, studying each picture and talking with men who were circling her like bees. When he and Arthur ran out of conversation, he caught her eye and pointed questioningly at the door. She nodded, and they slipped out into the early evening air.
"I'll walk you home, if you're headed that way," he offered.
"I suppose I am," she said. "That was fun."