She sighed. She was cross. She felt tricked and imposed upon. After the woman at the hospital had hung up on her she had sat for a long time on the side of the bed, staring at the infuriatingly incommunicative telephone. She still hadn’t  given up the idea that Quirke might have done all this in order to get her away from Paul, though the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Quirke might be many things, but a jealous father he was surely not.

‘So what will you do?’ he was asking her now.

‘I’ll just walk into the hospital and demand to see her.’

‘What makes you think she’ll agree to meet you, when she wouldn’t even talk to you on the phone?’

‘I’ll say I won’t leave until she comes. I’ll say – I’ll say your hand has got infected and I need to consult her.’

‘It wasn’t her that treated me,’ Quirke said.

‘Well, I’ll think of something. I’ll just sit there, for as long as it takes. Eventually they’ll give in, and tell her she’ll have to come and talk to me, if only so they can get rid of me.’

Evelyn spoke then, startling them both – they had almost forgotten she was there.

‘My dear, I should not have allowed your father to call you in the first place, but it’s so nice that you are here. Why don’t you and Mr Strafford make a little walk, on the seafront? It’s such a lovely day. You can go to the hospital and search for this young woman another time.’

Phoebe didn’t reply, and looked away vexedly. She had caught the spark of hope that had lighted in Quirke’s eye – plainly he too would prefer her to ‘make a little walk’ with that beanpole, whom she could see through the window, lounging outside in the shade with that book of his that seemed never out of his hand.

‘And there’s that dress we must find for you,’ Evelyn went on, continuing to knit. ‘We might go and look for it, you and I.’

Evelyn’s unshakeable calm could be infuriating. It was as if she lived inside an insulating capsule made of something transparent but far finer than glass, and entirely impenetrable.

Phoebe rose to her feet, holding on to her handbag as if it were a gauntlet.

‘I’m going to the hospital,’ she said.

She crossed to the desk and handed in her key, and asked the receptionist to call a taxi. Then she walked out into the sunlight, lifting a hand to shade her eyes against the glare. Quirke came out after her. He looked agitated. Serves him right, she thought.

‘I’m sorry—’ he began.

‘What are you sorry for?’ she said sharply. ‘I’m here, amn’t I – you got your way.’

‘Listen, I just—’