Sorry I had to ask you to come up this morning but I have to go to New York this afternoon.’ Fergus Stephenson opened the big crested box and pushed is across his desk. Richard Paterson took a cigarette and lit it. That’s quite all right, sir. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ Fergus said. ‘Beautiful. Let’s hope we have a nice spring. Last year was very disappointing. But you weren’t here, of course.’ ‘No,’ Paterson answered. He went on smoking, waiting for the Minister to come to the point. The technique was different to that used in the services. He passed the few moments in speculating on the origins of the word ‘diplomatic’ and its connotations; tact, social sensitivity. It had passed into common use outside its original limitations. It was used to describe someone with a knack for saying the unpleasant in a painless way. Which was exactly what Fergus Stephenson was about to do. It was so English, so typical to talk about the weather, as if the sudden burst of sunshine made the slightest difference to either of them.
