‘Is your speech at Penrith reported?’ Eleanor enquired.

‘Naturally,’ he replied, echoing her own response of a moment earlier. Usually it pleased him to have his movements, his speeches, reported in the newspaper.

‘Will you not read it to me? You used to.’

She wished at once she had not said that, you used to. It sounded plaintive, reproachful. She warmed her words with a smile that she did not feel and that he did not see.

‘If you wish so much to read it then do so.’ He sat back and tossed the paper across the table at her.

Eleanor took the paper, holding it tightly in her hands for she did not have her spectacles and could hardly make out the words. But here it was, a brief paragraph headed DUNLEVY ARRIVES LATE AT PENRITH DUE TO DELAYED TRAIN, and it went on to describe the very tardy arrival of the ministerial party due to a mishap on the railway line that had severely delayed the train. There was no mention of train-wreckers. The speech itself was not reported, though the outburst of the vulgar man was, described as a single dissenter subsequently removed from the proceedings.

‘How unfortunate,’ Eleanor observed, and the events of two days ago, which up to that point had seemed a trial and a challenge but ultimately a duty performed (if not an absolute success), now seemed farcical, a failure. She was uncertain if she shared in that failure or if she mocked it. She said nothing further on the subject.

And on the same page she read: Early in the week a Women’s Federal League was formed at the Sydney Town Hall with Lady Harris (the Mayoress) president and the following vice-presidents: Mrs E. Barton, Mrs G.H. Reid, the Premier’s wife—

And on it went, listing in exquisite detail the names of the wives of most of the prominent ministers of the Legislative Assembly and the Council, all of whom, it appeared, had also been in attendance. The object of the newly formed league was to assist in the securing of a large majority for the bill. It was to meet the next afternoon at the town hall.

‘But how extraordinary!’ Eleanor exclaimed. ‘I knew nothing of this. How was it I was not invited?’ She read again the list of names. ‘Mrs Price is to be honorary secretary, Mrs Forrester honorary treasurer! It is preposterous! What can Mrs Forrester know of accounting and finance? Can they have forgotten to invite me? Alasdair, do you not think it extraordinary?’

What if she had not been forgotten? What if she had been deliberately excluded? The spectre of Miss Trent, always present though occasionally silenced, materialised once more, immense and menacing. For if Eleanor had found out about Miss Trent, why should others not have done so, too?