She's weighing up her voice- vaguely familiar- and trying to match it to one of the numerous voices she's heard over the network. (Not all of them have been addressing; serves her cohort-mates right for leaving the conversation public).

"Not at all," Irene says calmly. "Nothing like a little subterfuge to make a night more interesting."

She smiles, but her eyes are hard. It's intentional; a trick she's fond of. No one who really has nothing to hide worries about things, but a guilty conscience will pick up on every little tell and- hopefully- react accordingly. "I'll have a whiskey sour, though, if you insist."