“May I speak plainly, or do I have to be polite?” “I prefer politeness.” “All right. Your estate is being managed by a damned idiot.” “That’s the polite version?” Phoebe asked, mildly startled.

“Yes, that’s what fellows do. We call our friends names like ‘Spoony’ or ‘Knobby-knees.’ The better the friend, the worse the insult.”

Therefore, Phoebe occasionally found it necessary to push back. After all, it was an older sister’s responsibility to keep her younger brother from behaving like a domineering ass.

When Pandora reached him and the veil was pushed back, St. Vincent broke with etiquette by leaning down to press a tender kiss on her forehead. “That part isn’t ’til later,” Pandora whispered to him, but it was loud enough that the people around them overheard, and a rustle of laughter swept through the crowd.

“Will he have to stay in bed? I’ll bring my cat to visit him.” Phoebe frowned regretfully. “Justin, I’m afraid you can’t keep her.” “Oh, I already knew that.” “Good. Well, then—” “—but you see, Mama, she wants to keep me.”

“I would show you the appropriate finger,” West muttered, “if it weren’t stuck in this baby handle.” He tugged at his imprisoned middle digit, trying to free it without snapping the teacup’s porcelain loop.

“There are all different kinds of smut,” Pandora said, warming to the subject. “Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut—” “Pandora,” West interrupted in an undertone, “for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public.” “Is it unladylike?” She heaved a sigh. “It must be. All the interesting words are.”

“I’ve never thanked you properly for marrying Kathleen at the registrar’s office,” West commented. “I want you to know how much I enjoyed it.” “You weren’t there.” “That’s why I enjoyed it.”

“Thank God you know what labels to affix to people. It would be so inconvenient to have to judge them individually.”