For a moment he had stared at the man—those bushy white whiskers, the stiff high collar, that old-fashioned frockcoat, those absurd pince-nez—appalled, as though he had been caught out in a lie. Which, he supposed, he had. Certainly Gregson had every right to be here; it was a public meeting and this was, presumably, the man’s domain. But Alasdair was appalled. His anonymity, or the illusion of it, was shattered.

‘Come away from this circus of madness, Dunlevy, my carriage is outside.’

This, perhaps, was the most unlikely turn the evening had taken: George Drummond-Smith appearing at his elbow and offering an unlikely escape. And himself accepting, though in his disorientated state Alasdair had not so much accepted the offer of escape as found himself bundled into a waiting hansom cab, the door slamming shut on him, and himself and Drummond-Smith fleeing the scene.

‘Your meetings are, by some measure, the most entertaining, Dunlevy,’ Drummond-Smith declared as the cab set off northwards along Illawarra Road at a brisk clip, and he had settled himself into his seat, the better to observe his fellow passenger. ‘Didn’t the last one descend into pitched battle?’

‘Hardly that!’

Now he had caught his breath a little, Alasdair sat up, rearranged one or two items of apparel that had become disarranged, and began to consider how he might, with dignity, extricate himself from the cab. Even five minutes in the confined space of a hansom cab with this man, Drummond-Smith, was not to be borne.

‘I have amused myself greatly this evening observing, first, Henderson’s meeting at Erskineville then Arnold’s meeting at St Peters,’ Drummond-Smith continued. ‘I have heard Arnold spoken of as a future premier but after this evening’s performance I am afraid I simply cannot see it. Dull. Utterly turgid, staid and dull. Your meeting, however—’ at which point he actually leaned over and tapped Alasdair on the knee with his cane ‘—a positive riot of exuberant spirit! Speaking of which, my evening began with the delightful ladies of the Women’s Suffrage League who met at Darlington to speak against Federation—but of course, you already knew this, Mrs Dunlevy being counted among their number.’

Alasdair had extricated himself from the cab at that point, his dignity no longer a priority. He had come home on his own. He had awaited his wife’s return.

It was a lengthy wait. For much of it, Alasdair sat perfectly still on the armchair that his wife usually favoured. He did know why he had chosen this armchair.

They were all his armchairs, of course. Paid for with his money.

It was the ride home with Drummond-Smith. It drove the breath from his body. Made him feel as though he might break every stick of furniture in the room. Forced him to recall, in every tormenting detail, the incident last year, the accusations that had followed it.