Roundabout

Inside, sure enough, Mrs. Pat was presiding over a silver tea-tray beneath a chandelier. She per- petually poured tea out of an antique china tea- pot. This wifely activity fascinated the photo- graphers and every few minutes one of them would say, 'Mrs. Nixon, would you mind pouring tea again?' She smiled widely and obligingly heaved the tea-pot up. The tea, handed to one in a gold- encrusted cup, tasted to me like old shoes, though an epicure identified it as Java Smoked. The cakes, on the other hand, were better than the native English ever lay -hands on—baby clairs and teeny cream buns filled with_real cream. The dining-room was shimmering gold with dainty arrangements of ('ape gooseberries upon the walls and there was a rare polish on the long table. The house, so one of the reception party told me, was full of 'little things the Whitneys left behind' though I could not find out what any of these were, unless one was the Van Gogh in the next room.

Mrs. Pat, face to face, is like a Republican ('opp6lia. She chatters, answers questions, smiles and smiles, all with a doll's terrifying poise. There is too little comprehension. Like a doll she would still be smiling while the world broke. Only her eyes, dark, darting and strained, signal that inside the black suit and pearls there is a human being, probably perfectly content not to get out.

`Do you worry about politics, Mrs. Nixon?'

'Oh no, I never worry.'

`Do you mind the rude things people have said about your husband, Mrs. Nixon?'

'Oh no, when you really know what a person is like inside them you don't let unkind comments affect you.'

'Do you find your political duties affect your family life, Mrs. Nixon?'

'Oh no, I reserve time to be with the children every day.'

Britain was beautiful, just too beautiful, that was for sure. Such a pity there was no time to see everything, all the wonderful places she was always reading about. She just loved people. She was like that. She loved entertaining, too. Mostly when she dined the Eisenhowers she took a hotel, but she just loved doing Spanish-style cooking for her friends. No, she didn't live in an official resi- dence. Just a house. The married couple who ran it had two whole days off a week and Mrs. Nixon just pitched in and did everything herself.

How did British women compare for dress with American women? Mrs. Pat looked round the dowdy assembly of women reporters and said tactfully that they looked exactly like their Amen- can counterparts. Most of Mrs. Pat's clothes came from the Elizabeth Arden Dress Shop and she always chose Richard's neckties. She was giving him ties for Christmas. Yes, she had been very disappointed at the trend of the recent elections. She herself, it was true, had once been a Democrat, but love had changed all that. And the Republican Party had changed too. Did she ever feel fright- ened at her reputation for being the perfect politician's wife?

'Oh no, I just travel along from day to day doing the best I can.'

And such a wonderful, chromium-plated best, too. One grey hair, one hint of fear, one golden tea-cup overturned on the Persian carpet and one could have loved her.

Mr. Henry

'THEY ASSURED me that it was not on any per- sonal grounds,' smiled Mr. Henry Brooke, MP, with a flutter of eyelashes. He was explaining to the press in Cardiff why three members of his Council for Wales and Monmouthshire had de- serted him. But it scarcely matters what he is talking about, an admirable timing device secreted somewhere on his likeable person will bring on the smile. These warm, benign moments come when one has no right to expect them. Really delightful smiles accompanied apparently banal phrases like : 'I well remember him saying in this very room'; and 'Changes were, as it were, in train before the chairman's resignation.'

Mr. Brooke wanted to be sure he'd been under- stood. 'There were no personal differences,' he said. 'Their resignations were not in any sense a personal slight.' In the middle of that last sentence there was a kind of stammered upsurge from Mr. Brooke's heart in which the word 'personal' again appeared. He spoke so any cub note-taker could get it all down. When he came to some outlandish place-name—say, like 'West South Wales'—he mduthed it slowly and emphatically so everyone could manage the spelling phonetically.

Mr. Brooke had a nice letter from the Prime Minister with him. He read it out. It said : 'There must always be a readiness for give and take between the advisers and those whom they are advising.' The Government have given the Coun- cil Mr. Brooke and they, or most of them, have taken him. Now, the advisers and the Minister 'they are advising are one. The letter also said that Mr. Macmillan would like the members to 'feel that they are doing a useful job.'

It was apparent that Mr. Brooke was in close touch with the Prime Minister's mind on Wales. This, he said, was open, absolutely open. He said it again on television in the evening, so he could not have been exaggerating. His admiration for the Prime Minister, and his loyalty, were evident and inspiring. He answered a rather tough ques- tion by a Welsh Nationalist reporter with : 'Now you are challenging a decision of the Prime Minister.' It was spoken quietly, but with a kind of ducal authority.

Newspapermen always admire somebody %Alp) can handle the rough questions. Mr. Brooke silenced one trouble-maker magnificently, simplY by stating facts : 'I've been frank with you,' lw said (again with that blue-blooded restraint), Tve told you the data of the next meeting.' And he was frank. Near the end of the press conference he said : 'My mind is always full of ideas. Which are good and which are bad I'm never sure.'