“A snitch is a snitch, that’s all. The lowest of the low.” Ruth rose gracefully to her feet and bent to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray next to Iris. When she straightened, she caught sight of Sasha, who stood in the kitchen doorway holding a glass of either water or gin, just watching the three of them. Iris couldn’t tell the color of his face, and whether he was still mad. She wished she could jump up and run to him and put her arms around him.

“I guess I ought to be going,” he said.

“No, don’t. I’m sorry. I’m a troublemaker, that’s all.” Ruth held out her hand. “Friends?”

He took her hand and shook it briefly. “Friends, sure.”

“Aw, don’t let her bust your chops, Digby. Nobody thinks you’re some kind of goddamn Red.”

“’Sall right.” Sasha swallowed back the rest of whatever was in his glass, and Iris decided it was probably gin, after all. He turned to her and smiled. His eyes were awfully blue and not that steady. He made an extravagant bow before her and lifted her hand from her lap. “Pleasure to see you out of the sick bay and looking so smashing, Miss Macallister.”

“I do not look smashing. I look smashed.”

Sasha kissed the back of her hand. “When the soul is as beautiful as yours, madam, the face needs no adornment.”

“Digby! You dog. Stay away from my sister with that kind of malarkey.”

“Oh, be quiet, Harry,” said Ruth. “Can’t you see he’s being sincere?”

Iris stared at the rumpled gold hair and the loose collar—the blue eyes beneath the slight overhang of his brows. His lips were wet with gin. He still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“He’s just teasing,” she said softly.

Sasha winked and straightened. “What do you say, Macallister? Are you maybe headed to the Gallo d’Oro?”

“I’m game if you are. Ruth?”

Ruth leaned her elbows on the back of Iris’s armchair, pure dynamite in her red dress, barefoot and long limbed and just shapely enough. Her red lipstick had long since faded to pink, but on Ruth it looked natural instead of cheap. Smashing—that was Ruth, not Iris. Not exactly beautiful, but striking in a way that was better than beauty and—more importantly—photographed extremely well. The tendons rippled in her throat as she finished her drink. “You two go without me. I can’t leave poor Iris alone on her first night home, and anyway, I’ve got to clean up after you swine.”

“Oh, don’t stay on my account!” Iris exclaimed.

Ruth sent Sasha a funny look and tapped out another cigarette from the pack next to the ashtray. “Believe me,” she said, “I’m not.”