A car was already waiting, motor rumbling, to whisk them into town, to George Morrow’s suite at the Harbour Rocks Hotel. There, a doctor examined them both thoroughly and pronounced them in excellent health, except for some lingering exhaustion and dehydration, in addition to the temporary loss of hearing, which the doctor expected to subside soon. Morrow and the doctor then bustled outside to announce this happy news to the waiting press, and Sam and Irene were left alone with Sandy, who curled up in an armchair and went warily to sleep.

There was no point in talking yet, because of the deafness, and of course they expected Morrow back any second. Sam got up and walked to one of the giant windows that looked out over Sydney Harbor, and Irene joined him. They didn’t touch. Nor did they hear George Morrow when he bustled back inside and came up behind them. They both started when he took each of them by the arm and informed them, loudly, that he was going to escort them by the back stairs to their suites, where the hotel chambermaids were waiting to draw their baths and ready them for an afternoon nap.

“You’ll want to get some rest,” Morrow said. “Tonight there’s a ball in your honor.”

Possibly nothing in Irene’s life until that point felt quite as immediately good as that bath. For one thing, the bathroom itself was a large, luxurious cave of marble and porcelain and soft Turkish towels. The water was fresh and warm, drawn for her by a reverent, wide-eyed chambermaid who added oil from a glass decanter and didn’t say a thing, not because of professional politeness but because her heart was too full for words. Then she left, and Irene sank into that tub like you might sink into heaven.

When she emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown, she was taken aback to find George Morrow at home on her sofa, smoking a cigar and nursing a glass of whiskey. He rose at once and asked if he could pour her something. Champagne, perhaps? It was legally available here in Australia, after all, and would help her sleep.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t touch intoxicants.”

It came out more prim than she intended, and Morrow had the grace to set aside his glass. He urged her to the sofa, settled himself in the nearby armchair, and apologized for intruding.

She cupped an ear. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak louder.”

“Of course!” he barked, leaning forward a few inches, and repeated himself.

“You’re not intruding at all, Mr. Morrow. We couldn’t have made the trip without you,” she replied.

“Believe me, Miss Foster, the honor of sponsoring this historic journey was all mine.” He paused to beam. Like the rest of him, his dentistry was perfect and whispered of prosperity. “Of course, like the rest of the world, I’m only happy you’re alive and well. Alive and well,” he repeated, more loudly, because Irene was squinting with the effort of making him out.