Molly Harrington was angry. She was so angry that she glared at the telephone as if it were a beast that had clawed her into submission.
She had taken the call in the kitchen, where she regularly spent the hour before Jim rose having her coffee and cigarette and mulling over the "Style" section of the Washington Post.
The time of the call should have been a clue. Seven-thirty. What self-respecting person would call at that hour? When Jim was White House counsel, such interruptions were to be expected. But now?
Bess Tarkington's voice had been, as always, like a frail bird call, exactly in keeping with the tiny-boned fragility of her appearance.
"Molly dearest. I hope I haven't woke you."
"Of course not," Molly had said. Didn't the woman know, as the papers said repeatedly, that Molly Harrington rose with the roosters?
"Isn't it an absolutely lovely morning, Molly?" The bright small talk should have been another clue to what was coming. Above the telephone, Molly's big box calendar had an inked in reminder of the dinner party at the Tarkingtons', set to take place that night.
