“What’s she do, Bern?”

“All sorts of things,” I said, remembering. “Oh, you mean for a living? She does something in Wall Street. I think she’s a stock analyst.”

“So she’s not just a bimbo.”

“Not in the traditional sense of the term.”

“And she’s English?”

“No.”

“I thought she was homesick for England. I thought that was why you took her for English tea at the Stanhope, and why you were planning on taking her to Cuttleford House.”

“She’s homesick for England,” I said, “in a manner of speaking, but she’s not English. In fact she’s never even been there.”

“Oh.”

“But she has a faint English accent, and she uses some British constructions in her speech, and she’s very clear on the notion that England is her spiritual home. And of course she’s read a whole lot of English mysteries.”

“Oh, right. Martha Grimes and Elizabeth George. They’re both English, aren’t they?”

“Actually,” I said, “they’re not, but they set their books over there, and she can’t get enough of them. And she’s read all the classics, too-Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers. Anyway, I thought Cuttleford House would be just her line of country.”

“‘Just her line of country’?”

“See? Now I’m doing it. I thought she’d be nuts about it.”

“And it’s a lot cheaper than going to England.”

“It’s not cheap,” I said. “But I had a very good evening around the end of January, and for a change money’s not a problem.”

“One of those Perrier nights.”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I know it’s morally reprehensible, but I did it anyway, and I wanted to invest some of the proceeds in high living before I piss it all away on food and shelter.”

“Makes sense.”

“So I actually thought about hopping on the Concorde and whisking her off for a whirlwind weekend in England. But I wasn’t sure I could find the right England.”