He has to pick his moment; Jupe's used to that. Late enough that the party's in full swing, their hostess (he hopes) pleasantly tipsy, but not so late that people have started to make their excuses and head home—increasing the potential of their stumbling across, say, a disheveled Russian reading Marjorie's diary, or looking through her trash, or whatever it is Raskolnikov's planning on doing.

Jupe banishes that thought, and every other thought of Raskolnikov, before approaching Marjorie. He has a pair of drinks—a Tom Collins for himself and Marjorie's drink of choice (according to her husband) for her. “Our bartender wanted me to bring this over,” he says, offering her the glass. Not exactly how it had gone down. With a teasing smile, he adds: “Between you and me, I think he likes you.”

Jupe sips his drink, allowing for a (he hopes) comfortable pause and dipping his voice into a more confidential register. “Thank you for this. I think we were all going a little crazy, cooped up like that.”