“Two days or close to it,” Higgins answered. He gave Tansy a surreptitious and entirely improper pinch on her lush posterior and proceeded along the deck, tossing back an offhand “Pity you won’t be seein’ your Mr. Briggs as soon as you thought” to Maggie.

“Two days,” groaned Maggie, overcome by this turn of events, the sad fate that had befallen the city of Brisbane, and the tiff with Tansy. She groped her way back to the compartment that housed nearly one hundred women and sat down on her bunk to think.

There was no point in assuming that Philip had died in the flood. More likely, he had heard of the disaster, guessed that the S.S. Victoria would be unable to dock, and very sensibly remained in Sydney, going about his duties in the Royal Theatre.

The heat was oppressive, and Maggie unbuttoned her gray woolen dress and stepped out of it, draping the garment carefully over the foot of her berth. Then, wearing only her butter-muslin drawers and matching chemise, she stretched out on the narrow bunk to rest and to dream.

Closing her eyes, she could see Philip’s handsome face, his golden brown hair and his amber eyes. She dreamed her way back to the seedy theater in London’s West End, back to the tiny dressing room she’d shared with the other players….

Maggie had been powdering her nose when the young Australian she’d heard so much about suddenly appeared in her mirror. His hands—smooth, uncallused hands they were—poised themselves above her bare, creamy shoulders for a moment, then fell gracefully to his sides. “Miss Chamberlin?” he inquired. “You’ll forgive me for intruding, I hope, but I saw your last performance and I just had to speak to you in person.”

Maggie stood up hastily and pulled on her shabby silken robe, a garment inherited from her mother. Now faded, the azure blue wrap had once been a glorious thing, as Maggie’s mother had been glorious. “Yes?” she answered hesitantly. “What is it?”

An angelic smile curved Philip’s soft mouth and lighted his mirthful eyes. “You’re an American,” he observed in a tone of friendly accusation.

Maggie nodded, her heart hammering against the base of her throat. The robe covered her adequately, and she wore a costume beneath it, but she still felt as though she were wholly naked before this man. She flushed because the sensation was not at all unpleasant, and she stammered out some insensible answer that eluded her ever after.

Philip Briggs laughed, his warm-brandy eyes caressing Maggie, and asked how she liked being an actress.

Maggie shrugged, smitten to an appalling degree. “This is a second-rate theater, after all,” she managed to say. And after that, even though she had to be back onstage in less than fifteen minutes, the entire story of her life tumbled out just as though someone had greased her tongue.