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In return for the companionship, Carville agreed to put his thoughts into full sentences on paper, and thus turned out the basic working document for the general campaign in June. "We never had a cross word despite my spending most of my waking hours with him in the most intense endeavor on the planet. With other people, I have cross words about every five minutes," says Carville crossly. "Let's put it this way: I wish I had a daughter because I would want her to marry George."
Stephanopoulos developed his selflessness as the grandson and son of Greek Orthodox priests, expected to be above reproach -- a child impersonating a grown-up. "A lot of priest's kids go bad, go wild, can't stand the strain of the scrutiny of the flock looking at them," says Begala. "George clearly was up to it." His too-good-to-be-true face looks out from a gallery of photos lining the wall of his parents' apartment on New York City's East 74th Street, next to the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Archdiocesan Cathedral, where his father serves as dean. There is little George in his white-and-gold altar-boy robes next to Archbishop Iakovos. There he is, poised and smiling, accepting the Truman scholarship from Margaret Truman, and robed again as the salutatorian at Columbia University.
Now the perfect child who once wanted to be a priest is grown up and, despite the Italian cut of his suits, still looks as if his mother dresses him in the morning and tousles his hair before sending him off. Critics think the soft-spoken Stephanopoulos has insufficient heft to speak for the President; yet this brooding, dark presence has a quiet authority. His power whisper makes people lean into him, like plants reaching toward the sun.
Stephanopoulos has little time these days for his Stairmaster workouts or visits to his girlfriend, a Philadelphia lawyer. He is looking to move out of his Adams Morgan apartment and into a new place. Gripped by his well-known pessimism -- when he wasn't saying, "That's my fault" during the campaign, he was intoning, "It's over" -- he couldn't let himself believe that Clinton had won until 5 p.m. on Election Day. "I called the mansion with a huge case of butterflies because I knew I wouldn't be talking to the same person anymore. I was on the speakerphone and said I didn't know what to call him, and Hillary said, 'Just call him Bill.' But, of course, I can't. When I'm talking about him, I say President-elect, but when I'm talking to him I still call him Governor. It now seems like a nickname, a term of endearment."