Iris held out her hand. Gwen passed her the number. Iris dialed it.

“Hello,” she said. “Is this the Cockerell residence? Is there a Mrs. Bousquet there? Oh, Madame Bousquet, forgive me. Might I have a word with her? Yes, I’ll wait.”

Gwen watched as her partner subtly shifted character. It was evident in the body language. Iris was seated on the edge of her chair, leaning forwards, her eyes focused on some unknown point—well, more likely the dart board opposite her.

“Hello, Madame Bousquet? This is Mary McTague from the Telegraph. No, the newspaper. Yes, that one. Do you read it? Ah, pity. In any event, I’m with the Society section, and we’ve just learned that you were with Prince Andrea’s family when they made their exciting getaway from Greece back in the twenties, is that right? It is! I am so glad I’ve found you. Would you be available for a brief interview, say, tomorrow morning? No, we don’t pay for our interviews. Not officially, anyway. I’m not saying I might not be able to give you a little something for your time, but remember that I’m just a lady journalist trying to get a story—they don’t pay us very much. I’ll bet you make more than I do … Really? Well, then we’re both vastly underpaid. Yes, I agree, the class system is unjust. When? You’re available when Mrs. Cockerell goes on her missions of mercy? Ten thirty will be fine. I will see you then.”

She hung up.

“How much do lady journalists make?” asked Gwen.

“No idea,” said Iris.

The waiting room at Dr. Milford’s office could have been a waiting room for anyone or anything, thought Iris. A stockbroker. A solicitor. A torturer. She envisioned the psychiatrist seated at a desk inside a dungeon, or whatever one would call a dungeon on a well-lit ground floor of a Harley Street office, replete with coiled leather whips and arcane iron flensing instruments hanging from the walls. The waiting room gave no indication of such infernal purpose, however. She sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, the two comfy couches being occupied by several young men, all but one of whom were in uniform. The exception, who nevertheless was of their age and bearing, was wearing a gray two-piece demob suit. One of the sleeves was flat and pinned to his waist to keep it from flapping around.

She filled out a questionnaire on a clipboard provided to her by the receptionist who guarded the thick door that separated them from the inner sanctum sanctorum, into which Gwen had disappeared twenty minutes earlier, shoulders thrown back, deep breath taken. She never talked to Iris about her visits, other than that she was making them, and this was the first time that Iris would be seeing her directly after having her psyche fumigated. She wondered what Gwen would be like. She imagined her friend as being temporarily softened, like moulded plastic fresh out of the oven, still pliable until the hard outer shell re-formed in the harsh cold air of the world.