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matter.”
    Amos put his drink on the table beside him and settled in his chair. “August Devere,” he began.
    If August were considered the first generation, there were four generations to be taken into account. Jane, wife of William, the late son of the late August, would be the sole representative of the second, but she had three children, with the oldest of whom, James, and his sister, she shared the house that August had built and in which she had lived most of her long life. Then there was the latest generation.
    â€œHugh?”
    â€œAnd Susan,” Amos said after a pause.
    â€œTheir father, James, has two siblings?”
    â€œHe had two. Only one, a sister, is still alive. His younger brother was a naval officer, a pilot, who was reported missing in action in the Middle East. His sister, Margaret, is Mrs. Bernard Ward.”
    â€œMrs. Bernard Ward.”
    â€œYes.”
    Margaret Ward was what is now called a paleo-conservative, a staunch and vocal critic of the so-called neocons, her wit legendary, her aristocratic dismissal of dubious converts to the conservative cause enjoyed even by its victims for the unforgettable English in which it was expressed. “A liberal, like lilies that fester, is odious under any name.” Her half-dozen books all continued to sell in respectable numbers; the latest, Narcissus in Niger , was still among the top ten on the bestseller lists, almost a year after its publication. She was a formidable foe, a loyal ally, and a ferocious Catholic to boot.
    â€œWhat is a ferocious Catholic, Amos?”

    â€œMargaret would say that she has modeled herself on Chesterton and Belloc. Others find her more akin to Patrick Buchanan.”
    â€œI don’t know him.”
    â€œNever say that to Margaret.”
    â€œI doubt that I will have the opportunity.”
    â€œShe speaks very highly of you.”
    â€œI scarcely know the woman.”
    â€œAs I said before, the Deveres, some of them, are your parishioners.”
    â€œYes. Margaret is one of them.” One he seldom saw. Her work involved incessant travel.
    Over their meal, Father Dowling briefed Amos on his conversation with Bishop Wilenski. The lawyer nodded through the narrative as if arriving at a judgment. “The Deveres are your armor and shield, Father Dowling.”
    â€œI got the impression that it was the Menotti windows in the church.”
    â€œThat is very much the same thing.”
    Later, in a lounge, with Amos sipping brandy, Father Dowling got the lawyer’s account of the commissioning of the stained glass windows by August Devere. “It was Jane who made him aware of the work of Angelo Menotti. The artist was not well known then. Jane had made his acquaintance as a student at Rosary College.”
    â€œSurely he wasn’t a fellow student.”
    Amos smiled. Of course, Rosary had been exclusively a women’s college.
    â€œHe was artist in residence there. It would not be too much to say that Jane launched his career in stained glass windows.”
    â€œHe did other things as well?”
    â€œOh, yes. Paintings, some sculpture. Stained glass was important to his career, but not everything. He did a portrait of my wife.”

    â€œThe bishop told me that someone intends to reproduce all of Menotti’s stained glass in a book.”
    â€œYes. Carl Borloff. I drew up the agreement between him and Jane Devere. Of course, he will also need permission from you and the other pastors in whose churches Menotti windows are found. It is one of the ironies of such things that the artist’s permission is not required.”
    â€œIs he alive?”
    â€œIndeed he is. In his presence I feel like a young man again, not that I could compete with him in agility. He is older than Jane by a year or two.”
    â€œThen you see him?”
    Amos drew on his cigar, and his words seemed to ride exhaled smoke as if he were a Plains Indian sending signals.