“Yes,” said Irene. She played with the buttons of his woolen waistcoat. It wasn’t cold, but it was still winter, after all, and the morning air was cool on her hands and face. The sky had turned gloriously pink. She was drowsy and happy, listening to Sam’s heartbeat through the wool, listening to his rumbly voice. His hand found hers and wound their fingers together.

“Maybe one day we could have a kid of our own,” he said. “Raise it with Pixie.”

“Is that what you want?”

“More than anything in the world, except you. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about kids.”

“Well, we’ve got all the time in the world for you to think about it. You just tell me yes or no when you’ve decided.”

Irene raised herself on one elbow. Her eyes were blurry, but she could see his face, all right, lit up by the sunrise. “Sam Mallory,” she said, kind of raspy, “I have never loved anything on earth so much as I love you.”

“Not even flying?”

“Not even flying.”

“Surfing?”

“Not by a long shot.”

He reached for the back of her head and kissed her, and a little while passed before they said anything else. Even then, they didn’t say much.

They returned separately to the house. Irene felt like the sun, so full of heat and light she couldn’t help shedding it all around her. In the kitchen, she filled her cup back up with coffee and asked the cook if anyone else was up. The cook told her that Mr. Hounslow and Mr. Bruce were out riding, and Mr. Morrow was in the dining room eating breakfast.

Irene realized she was hungry and went into the dining room, where the breakfast dishes were spread out on the sideboard. She heaped her plate and sat down across from Morrow. He’d already said good morning and was studying the newspaper. Since arriving in Sydney, Irene had been avoiding any kind of newspaper or magazine. She was afraid of seeing herself in it, some photograph that looked like her but was not, some quote attributed to her, some description that matched a person who looked and sounded like Irene but wasn’t really, not the real Irene, Irene as Irene understood her. But now, sitting in the dining room of this fellow Hounslow’s house in the middle of nowhere, skin aglow, mind sharp, Irene felt some curiosity about that newspaper on the table. Not for news of herself! The rest of the world, the real world, business and politics and baseball. So she asked Morrow if she could read this newspaper when he was finished.

Morrow looked up and smiled. “Do you know what I think? I think you should take a vacation from the news.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just the same damned thing over and over.”