She was dressed already in white brocaded satin, the bodice embroidered with gold, and her diamonds. It was the dress she had worn to the Governor-General’s ball in April for the opening of the special session of parliament. Mrs Dunlevy wore white, the Herald had reported the following morning, though it had listed almost every other lady’s dress in detail—Lady Darley’s silver appliqué and shaded heliotrope chiffon, Mrs Barton’s pale pink silk and deep flounces of lace, Mrs Dickens’ embroidered netting and black trimming. But Mrs Dunlevy wore white.

The morning edition of the newspaper lay on her writing desk, where she had placed it after lunch so that she might read it alone in her room. A steamer, the Albatross, had gone down in the Cook Strait with the loss of all hands. It had been missing since Tuesday and now the captain of another ship had reported seeing pieces of decking and masting floating in the water. It was a wholly inauspicious name, wasn’t it, the Albatross? Surely one was anticipating catastrophe by naming a ship thus. Eleanor saw, for a moment, the pieces of decking, the masting floating in the water. The newspaper listed the names of the perished officers and crew, recording their rank and whether or not they were married. Most were.

She picked up her pen and became aware that Alice was standing just outside the door. She held her pen above the page, and did not move. The page narrowed into a tiny white dot before her eyes. What did the girl want? Why did she stand there? She would get up and fling open the door and demand of the girl what she meant by it.

But Eleanor did not get up, she did not fling open the door, and after a time she heard the floorboards creak and Alice went away.

She had been holding her breath and she let it out now in a rush. She picked up the newspaper and read again the list of passengers. She had scanned the list already, but what if she had missed the name of someone with whom she was acquainted? For here was a Mrs Pavey travelling with her daughter—there had been a Miss Pavey, had there not, many years ago, the sister of a friend of someone? But if Miss Pavey had married, her name would no longer be Pavey; she would have some other name. There was no one, then, on the list whom she knew. She ought to be relieved.