“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You look- I don’t know- strained?”

He saw her deciding to decline his sympathy. She glanced up at the high window beside them where the fog was crowding against the panes like compressed gas. Their gray mugs of tea stood stolid on the tabletop before them, untouched. Phoebe’s hat was on the table too, a minuscule confection of lace and black velvet stuck with an incongruously dramatic scarlet feather. Quirke nodded in the direction of the hat. “How is Mrs. What’s-hername?”

“Who?”

“The one who owns the hat shop.”

“Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes.”

“Surely that’s a made-up name.”

“There was a Mr. Wilkes. He died, and she began to call herself Cuffe-Wilkes.”

“Is there a Mr. Cuffe?”

“No. That was her maiden name.”

“Ah.”

He brought out his cigarette case, clicked it open, and offered it to her flat on his palm. She shook her head. “I’ve stopped.”

He selected a cigarette for himself and lit it. “You used to smoke… what were they called, those oval-shaped ones?”

“Passing Clouds.”

“That’s it. Why did you give up?”

She smiled, wryly. “Why did you?”

“Why did I give up drink, you mean? Oh, well.”

They both looked away, Phoebe to the window again and Quirke sideways, at the floor. There were half a dozen couples in the place, all sitting at tables as far separated from the others as possible. The floor was covered with large, black-and-white rubber tiles, and with the people in it placed just so, the room seemed set up for a silent, life-size game of chess. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and stewed tea, and there was a faint trace too of something medicinal and vaguely punitive. “This awful place,” Phoebe said, then glanced at her father guiltily. “Sorry.”

“For what? You’re right, it is awful.” He paused. “I’m going to check myself out.”