“You’ll be lucky if you’re asked to sit down,” said Lulu. “She’s really not what you’d call a cuddly bunny, is she, Charlie?”

“She’s not our biggest fan,” agreed Charlie. “I’ve tried everything, talking to her, taking a box of chocolates at Christmas but she told me she’s diabetic, offering to pick up the Sunday paper for her but she says she doesn’t read them because they’re full of nonsense. She just won’t come around. She told Maeve that if she’d known she was going to let ‘Irish students’ use the house, she’d have blocked the sale. Students! Can you believe it?”

“She doesn’t sound very happy,” said Sophie. “Maybe she’s lonely.”

“I’m sure she’s lonely.” Lulu rose to clear the plates. “If I went around being like Mrs. Scott-Ramsay, I’d be lonely, too. She called you a thief, Soph.”

“Well, for all she knows, I am. Great food, Lulu. Wasn’t it amazing, Jamie?”

“Amazing.” Jamie’s eyes, which rarely left Sophie for very long, found their way to Lulu with heartfelt appreciation. “Truly amazing. You don’t know how seldom I eat like this.”

“You should get a job in a restaurant,” Sophie told him.

“Or make your fortune on TV,” said Lulu.

“He can’t make his fortune on TV till he’s thirty,” said Sophie. “The only roles for guys in their twenties are playing someone’s son, and he’s far too big to look like anyone’s son.”

“Well, except for my dad’s,” said Jamie.

“Your dad weighs sixteen stone, Jamie. Not big on on-screen charisma.”

“Mum likes him.”

“Oh, so do I, he’s lovely! You’d love him, Lulu, Charlie, he’s sweet. But he’s a teddy-bear type, like Jamie, and everyone knows that teddy-bear types never work in their twenties. You mark my words, James, you’ll wake up on your thirtieth birthday and the phone will be ringing off the hook with offers. So only five and a half years to go …

“Six and a quarter, actually.”

“… and we’ll all be boasting that we know you. Are you ready for some pudding?”

“Um …” Jamie, who had taken three helpings of the casserole, hesitated.

“Oh, go on, say you’re ready for pudding, please.”

“Oh, okay.” Laughing, Jamie shook his head and surrendered. “I’m ready for pudding.”

“Are you indeed, sir?” Sophie tapped her chin with a thoughtful finger. “Lulu, do we have anything for this young man’s pudding?”

“Pudding?” said Lulu. “You didn’t mention anything about pudding to me.”

“Didn’t I? What a regrettable oversight. Well, I suppose we’d better see if we have anything suitable that might just happen to be in the fridge.” Sophie rose, and gravely crossed the room to the capacious stainless steel refrigerator in the corner.

“Mr. James MacNichol, sir, we are forced to serve you”—with a flourish, she opened the refrigerator door—“cheesecake!” Triumphantly, she bore to the table a creamy round, its surface lightly marbled with black currant juice.

“Cheesecake!” said Jamie. “Wow, that’s my favorite. How did you guess?”

“Guess!” said Sophie. “The whole of that game we played last Wednesday evening was a fiendishly clever master plot made up by Esme, Jack, and me specifically to worm the information out of you. Lulu whipped it up with her little wooden spoon this morning, and here we are, so enjoy.”