"I came here to work out some compromise with you," Channing said, pocketing the tiara, then feeling foolish and placing it back on the desk, then deciding that would be quite undiplomatic and pocketing it again while Qui Dor's round eyes fairly sparkled. "Instead, I find myself being lectured on the philosophy behind the trouble. That doesn't help."
"You're confused, Mr. Channing. When I said things will work out for you, I meant it. More I cannot tell you, except to say the matter is entirely up to you. I should have said things can work out for you. I'm sorry if this sounds cryptic, but I can tell you no more. Incidentally, I'm sure your wife will like the tiara."
It did sound cryptic. Channing did not know if Qui Dor was sorry. Channing was sorry.
Maybe he'd be better off giving the tiara to Mrs. Delacourt.
When Channing could make only a negative report to Mrs. Delacourt, the wheels began their spinning. Health and P. W. tendered a frosty ultimatum which he was forced to ignore because he lacked policy-making authority. Someone bent the First Lady's ear, who in turn bent the President's. When State himself returned from India with a redder face but no answers, he received a verbal whipping and almost achesonian condemnation in the press. Clearly, he needed a scapegoat.
While State was being chastized by the President, the scapegoat was home in Center Moriches, determined to rescue something from the sinking ship of life. He'd effect a reconciliation with Ellen and they could debate the ultimate disposition of little Stephanie at some later date.
A savory aroma assailed his nostrils from the kitchen. He found Ellen there, scurrying from pot to pot, a determined look on her face, a stray lock of chestnut hair loose over one eye.
"Chicken cacciatore," he said, breathing deeply. "Hey now, we haven't had that at home in a long time."
"Too long," said Ellen, stirring the delicious contents of a large pot. "A girl can make mistakes, dear. Smell good?"