The pair wandered around the new light and steel building and drank gin. They got enmeshed in countless conversations about generalities, and small-talked with a vengeance. They chatted with the models and they chatted about the Vineyard. They admitted that Chinese bronzes had changed their young lives so as not to appear boorish. The Driver told someone at the buffet that only cars and art made life worth living, and on the whole he thought that art was probably easier to take care of. As the sun set over Pei's masterpiece, they walked out to the car in the company of a young couple from Brookline all maligned Pissarro, though none of them had ever held a brush. When they got to the car there was a notice on it that said the convertible was being converted to a condominium and they had the option to buy. From Huntington Avenue came the sounds of turbo-powered portable stereos and the roar of Trans-Ams. The name of such cars was not lost on them. Suddenly, the Colonel was at their elbows.

"Gentlemen," he said. "What is the news."

"Well frankly, Colonel," said the Driver. "Pauline Kael says the odds are getting worse, and she's a silly optimist compared to most of them."

The Colonel nodded.

"Somebody told me yesterday that if North Dakota seceded from the Union, it would be the third ranking nuclear power in the world, and things generally do not bode well."

"I see," said the Colonel.

"To say nothing of the rest of the mess."

The Colonel smiled. He looked around him at Huntington Avenue and tapped his cane on the ground. In the night air you could smell a bit of the sea from the Harbor.

"Well, son," said the Colonel. "Don't worry. It's been like this before."

The Colonel moved slowly down Huntington Avenue, surrounded by women who looked like pre-revolutionary Russian peasants. The Intern and the Driver watched him go. They could have sworn they heard hoofbeats and the sounds of polished steel.

Sabres, Gentlemen, Sabres.