In Washington last week, Russian Ambassador Constantine Oumansky was all over the place. Short, garrulous, dapper in his white suit, white shirt, white shoes, he was trying to make up in two days for his two years of isolation after the Hitler-Stalin pact—and doing a good job of it.
He talked with the press, showed himself in public, and most important, he conferred with Sumner Welles. When he emerged, both men wore the forced, puckered smiles of acute pain that go with diplomatic friendship (see cut).
State Department bigwigs, who eat protocollops for lunch every day, enjoy the measured suggestions, the firm...
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