“The most difficult thing,” Charlie says, his voice rising half an octave, a boy nervous, confessing his soul, “the most difficult thing is to compromise. To sit in between, not leaning too far one way nor the other, not taking things to their conclusion. To be sensible. Boring.”

Livia’s mother scoffs at his words. But she resettles in her chair.

“Can it be that you are a coward, Mr. Cooper?”

Livia watches Charlie flush at this, swallow his Smoke. He is speaking to her, Livia, now, only to her, his words low and precise.

“Perhaps I am. A coward.”

“Oh, Charlie! It appears I have made you angry.”

“That’s why it is so hard to stand in the middle. Someone will always point their finger at you and mock.”

Her mother shrugs as though to concede the point, then props her chin up on her hands. “The problem is this, Mr. Cooper. Your compromise is nothing other than the status quo. It’s sitting on your hands and being decent. It will never change the world. But then, your parents would like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid now, Mr. Cooper. You come from one of England’s great families, wouldn’t you say? By pedigree. But also by wealth. Of course, much of this wealth isn’t as ancient as all that. Two generations, no more. But wealth is like a spinster: it is impolite to inquire about its age. The truth is your family’s fortune has grown tenfold in less than thirty years, and along with it, its influence, its standing. It begs the question: how?”

All at once, Charlie’s face turns pale.

“That’s what Renfrew said to me,” he whispers. “‘Ask yourself where all the money comes from.’”

“And, Mr. Cooper, have you?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“Hazard a guess then.”

Again he hesitates. Then — eyes rising, committed to the truth — the word tumbles out of him: “Sweets.”

“B&S. Quite. Shares in the factory, up until recently. A royal licence to import the raw ingredients. Colonial holdings. Import licences. The Spencers bought up the monopoly of manufacture, of course, but the business as a whole is far too lucrative to leave to one family alone. Did you know your father was in Parliament yesterday, introducing a new bill? A grief-stricken father: he thinks you dead and blames some Irish migrants who were found with Julius’s gun. The Tory papers call it the New Isolationism. A return to purity, both moral and ethnic. Kick out all foreigners, all nonconformists. Chase off the Catholics and Jews. Limit trade to what we import ourselves from our colonies. No more foreign sin! A high-minded bill. And incidentally rather lucrative for those who hold an import licence. Your father can avenge you and line his pockets all in one quick swoop.”

She pauses just long enough for Charlie to put his head in his hands.