“Do you make a habit of spying on girls like that?” she said.
Quirke stopped before her, one foot on the edge of the pavement.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like a gangster casing a bank.”
“Depends on the girl. Have you anything worth robbing?”
“Depends what you’re after.”
They were silent a moment, watching each other; then the girl smiled.
“Hello, Nuncle,” she said.
“Hello, Phoebe. What’s wrong?”
She gave a grimacing shrug.
“What’s right?”
THEY SAT IN THE HOTEL LOUNGE IN LITTLE GILT CHAIRS AND HAD TEA and plates of tiny sandwiches and tiny cakes on a tiered cake stand. The high, ornate room was busy. The Friday evening horsey crowd was up from the country, all tweeds and sensible shoes and braying, overbearing voices; they made Quirke feel on edge, and when he squirmed the curved arms of the gilt chair seemed to tighten their grip on him. It was obvious that Phoebe loved it here, loved the opportunity it afforded her of playing the poised young lady, Mr. Griffin the consultant’s daughter from Rathgar. Quirke watched her over the rim of his teacup, enjoying her enjoyment. She had taken off her hat and set it beside her plate; it looked like a table ornament, its feather languidly adroop. Her hair was so black the waves of it showed a bluish sheen in their hollows. She had her mother’s vivid blue eyes. He thought she was wearing too much makeup-that lipstick was altogether too garish for a girl her age-but he made no remark. From an opposite corner of the room an elderly fellow of military bearing, with polished bald pate and a monocle, appeared to be regarding him with a fixed, affronted glare. Phoebe popped a miniature éclair whole into her mouth and munched it, widening her eyes, laughing at herself.