Corridors of Power by C.P. Snow

Next day, when I called in Roger's office, he sat calm and stoical, like a man without passions, as though any story about an outbreak of his was one's own invention and couldn't be referred to. Yet once more his tic returned: in a distant, cold, almost inimical manner, he asked me to report what the papers were rumouring that morning. ‘There's not much,' I said.

‘Good. ' His face, his voice, became smooth. He was for the moment over-easily reassured, like a man jealous in love, snatching at the bits of news which comfort him.