She handed me the column, which I tucked back into my pocketbook. The portico protected the room from the sunshine, and the air was cool, a relief after the unusual heat outdoors. Still, a trickle of perspiration made its way down my spine. The duchess ignored the coffee service and folded her hands on her lap. “We’ve worked so hard,” she said. “I’m awfully proud of this Red Cross business. Between that and the clinics, my God, they can’t say I haven’t done my bit.”

“A maternity clinic is such an ideal cause.”

“Brilliant, isn’t it? Of course it’s desperately needed. They breed like rabbits, you know, and show about as much care for their infants.”

My hands enclosed my pocketbook. I stared at her thin red lips.

“Was there anything else?” she said.

There was an expectant look on her face, around her eyebrows, which were groomed into high, thin arches that suggested perpetual interest. I thought maybe she’d heard the crackle of the envelope inside the pocketbook. I heard her voice in my head. They breed like rabbits.

“No,” I said. “Nothing else.”

“Very well, then. Let’s— Oh, my darlings!”

A familiar yipping sounded from the doorway. The duchess’s face lit like the Christmas tree in the corner. She held out her long, bony arms like a mother receiving a beloved child. Into those arms leapt Preezie and Pookie, panting and licking and wriggling, terrier coats as glossy as the duchess’s own coiffure, festive red bows tied around their necks. Detto settled himself at her feet, looking soulful. The duke followed, although he stopped short of his wife’s arms and merely stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned at the sight before him, the scene of mutual worship.

“You see,” he said, “you see, Mrs. Randolph, if only the damned papers would show them this. Did you ever see such affection?”

“Hardly ever,” I said. “Good morning, Your Highness. Merry Christmas.”

“Yes, yes. Happy Christmas. Fine day, eh?”

“The cake, David, darling. Get me a piece of cake.”

The duke bent forward and plucked a generous wedge of rum cake from the plate on the coffee tray. The duchess snatched it from his fingers and broke it in two. In her lap, the dogs went wild. “Be patient, darlings,” she said, laughing, and the darlings went still, didn’t they, except for the furious wagging of their identical tails, while they received their Christmas rum cake from the fingers of the Duchess of Windsor, just like your dog at home.

“Aren’t they precious,” said the duchess, in her throatiest voice.

“Aren’t they,” I said.

“It’s just because it’s Christmas. Ordinarily we’re very strict.”

“Very strict,” said the duke.

“Poor darlings, they’ve had such a time of it. This awful, awful war.”

“At least they’re out of danger, aren’t they? A long way from Europe.”