“How’s the boyfriend?” Quirke said.

She shrugged, and swallowed mightily. “He’s all right.”

“Still at the law?”

“He’ll be called to the Bar next year.”

“Will he, now. Well, that’s simply spiffing.”

She threw a cake crumb at him, and he sensed an outraged flash of that monocle come flying at them from across the room.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” she said. “You’re so sarcastic.” Her face darkened and she looked into her cup. “They’re trying to make me give him up. That’s why I phoned you.”

He nodded, keeping a level look. “Who’s they?”

She tossed her head, her permed waves bouncing.

“Oh, all of them,” she said. “Daddy, of course. Even Granddad.”

“And your mother?”

“Her?” she said, a derisive snort. She pursed her lips and put on a reproving voice. “Now, Phoebe, you must think of the family, of your father’s reputation. Hypocrites!” She glared at him, then suddenly laughed, putting a hand over her mouth. “Your face!” she cried. “You won’t hear a word said against her, will you?”

He did not respond to that, but said instead:

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to them,” she said, leaning forward quickly over the little table, her hands clasped at her breast. “Talk to Daddy-or talk to Granddad, you’re his white-headed boy, after all, and Daddy will do whatever Granddad tells him to.”

Quirke brought out his cigarette case and his lighter. Phoebe watched him tap the cigarette on his thumbnail. He could see her calculating if she dared to ask him for one. He blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and picked a flake of tobacco from his lower lip. “I hope you don’t seriously intend marrying Bertie Wooster,” he said.