“… do you, Sissons?” the Prince enquired. The expression on his face was polite but less than interested.

“Mostly through the Port of London,” Sissons replied. “Of course, it is a very labor-intensive industry.”

“Is it? I admit, I had no idea. I suppose we take it for granted. A spoonful of sugar for one’s tea, and so on.”

“Oh, there is sugar in scores of things,” Sissons said with feeling. “Cakes, sweet pastries, pies, even some things we might have supposed to be savory. A sprinkle of sugar improves the taste of tomatoes more than you would believe.”

“Does it really?” The Prince raised his eyebrows slightly in an attempt to look as if the information were of value to him. “I had always thought of salt for that.”

“Sugar is better,” Sissons assured him. “It is mostly labor that adds to the cost, you see?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Labor, sir,” Sissons repeated. “That is why the Spitalfields area is good. Thousands of men needing work… an almost endless pool to call upon. Volatile, of course.”

“Volatile?” The Prince was still apparently lost.

Vespasia was aware of others within earshot of this rather pointless exchange, and also listening. Lord Randolph Churchill was one of them. She had known him in a slight way most of her life, as she had known his father before him. She was conscious of his intelligence and his dedication to his political beliefs.

“A great mixture of people,” Sissons was explaining. “Backgrounds, religions and so on. Catholics, Jews, and of course Irish. Lot of Irish. The need to work is about all they have in common.”

“I see.” The Prince was beginning to feel he had said enough to satisfy courtesy and might be excused for leaving this exceedingly dull conversation.