“You’ve hurt his feelings, Aggie,” said Charles equably.

“Don’t care,” muttered Agatha. Bill hadn’t even bothered to phone her. “What are you having?”

“I’ll have the all-day breakfast. The Dead-Eye Dick Special, and I hope it comes with lots of chips.”

“No starter? Oh well, I’ll have a ham salad.”

“They can’t have anything described simply as ham salad.”

“It’s described as South Sea Roast pig, sliced and on a bed of crunchy salad with Hard Tack croutons.”

“Oh. Wine?”

“Why not?”

Charles signalled to the waiter, ordered their meals and a carafe of house wine.

“No vintage for me?” asked Agatha.

“I wouldn’t bother in a place like this.”

“So why did you bring me to a place like this?”

“God, you’re sour this evening, Agatha. Am I to assume that James is not around?”

“No, he’s away somewhere.”

“And didn’t even say goodbye? Yes, I can see by the look on your face.”

“Men are so immature.”

“That’s what you women always throw at us.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“It’s a necessary part of the masculine make-up. It enables us to dream greater dreams and bring them about. Have you ever wondered why all the great inventors are men?”

“Because women never had a chance.”

“Wrong. Women are pragmatic. They have to be to bring up children. 1 shall illustrate what I mean with a story.” He rested his chin on his hands and gazed dreamily across at her.

“A chap goes to Cambridge University. The girls there terrify him and they’re only interested in rugger-buggers anyway and he’s the academic type. So he falls in love with a fluffy little barmaid, and gets her pregnant and marries her. He gets a first in physics but he has to support his new family, so he takes a job in an insurance office and there he is, up to his neck in a mortgage and car payments and the wife has twins.