Boyce chuckled.
“As a matter of fact,” said Edwin, clinching the argument, “her father was a country parson in low circumstances.”
“I understand they usually are,” said Boyce with a yawn.
Their night was complicated by two new cases. Next morning they appeared at breakfast with slightly ruffled tempers. They sat at opposite ends of the table, Edwin reading, without understanding, one of Oldham’s caustic critiques on a symphony concert the night before, his friend glued to his beloved anthology.
“What did you say her name was?” said Boyce, apropos of nothing. “Rosie, wasn’t it?”
Edwin grunted.
“Have you ever sampled the Sortes Virgilianae? I sometimes try that trick with the anthology. There are plenty of generalisations, so it often comes off rather well. How’s this for last night?”
“H’m—”
“Yes, fire away.”