“Yeah,” Hillary says sarcastically, “you’re a big help on Twitter. Trump is tweeting out video from 2004 where you’re trashing me as ‘the scary part about democracy’ for taking campaign donations from the banking industry and then voting for an anti-consumer bankruptcy bill that would have helped the credit card companies.”

Warren smiles primly, sipping her Pellegrino. “Speaking of credit, you have to give me some for this: In my last book, I left out the stuff I had in my previous one about you being an unprincipled sellout. By 2014, when that one came out, it looked like you were going to go the distance. My purity sometimes gives way to expediency.

“You know all the Democrats want me on the ticket to add some sizzle since the crowds you draw wouldn’t even fill this couch. I know you are afraid I will overshadow you and I will. But I can help you reel in all the young women who find you more shifty than nifty. And the Bernie Bros dig me.”

“Thanks, Pocahontas,” Hillary replies, looking steely. “I can do some things on my own. I did manage to secure a spot in the Ivy League without pretending to be Native American. I hope you noticed that I’ve decorated my house in all the colors of the wind.”

Warren bristles, Church Lady-style: “You have done a fine job here, except that one painting looks crooked, Hillary. I’m surprised you don’t have oil portraits of Goldman and Sachs. And let me give you some free advice: Now that Bernie and I have forced you to address income inequality, you might want to hide that $12,495 tweed Armani jacket you wore on the trail in the back of your closet.”

The senator from Massachusetts stands up. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asks. “Can I squeeze in there with the server?”

Hillary gives that big laugh that indicates she is not amused. “No need to go on the warpath,” she says in her best Cersei manner. “Let’s bury the hatchet — in The Donald.”