"You're too kind," Irene coos, coming in as bidden and surrendering the wine, peeling off her gloves with liberal help from her teeth in a way which definitely doesn't tally with the white lace and prim hemline.

"And I love the blonde, by the way," she adds, not fooled at all; it would take more than hairdye to make her forget how Benevenuta acted during the crisis, and perhaps more interestingly the gap between how she acted then and how she acts now and at other, safer times.

A practical woman is one thing, and a very interesting thing indeed in Irene's opinion, but a woman who lies is ten times better.