And this was a triumph for Alasdair, hard-earned and a long time coming. He swelled, a little, with pride.

The Premier added, ‘Though do not bring that wife of yours—we do not wish an anti-billite in our midst!’

It seemed that the Premier might laugh now to indicate that this was a little joke, but the Premier did not laugh. It was not a little joke, and Alasdair’s triumph, hard-earned and a long time coming, turned to cold dismay.

But the telegram smouldered in his pocket and Miss Trent lived. He touched the telegram and his fingers glowed warm. The train to Bathurst would depart mid-morning the next day so he would have only a few hours in Sydney, but that was all he needed.

They arrived at Sydney Terminal at midnight, and though the hour was late and the train had been delayed, men were there from the press, and a number of other gentlemen and even one or two wives, though Eleanor was not among them. The Premier gave an impromptu speech on the platform, which a number of the gentlemen of the press copied down and others did not, for nothing was said that had not been said on other platforms and at other stations. And Alasdair wondered what it would be like for the Premier, sometime hence, to exit a train and not be greeted by the members of the press and not be called upon to make an impromptu speech—for such a time would surely come.

He left in a cab at the first opportunity, observing those members of his party whose wives had ventured out in the dark and the cold and the incessant rain—it still rained here in Sydney!—to meet them. It was very strange to know that his wife was not among them and perhaps (for all kinds of vague but extraordinary ideas now eddied about his head) never would be again. He stared out of the window of the cab and thought how strange it all was.

The house in Elizabeth Bay was in darkness and no one waited up for him. He hammered loudly on the door and a light came on upstairs. In a moment the door opened and Alice stood there in a nightgown and a shawl, holding a candle. She threw up a hand to cover her throat as a lady would who had mislaid her pearls and her face was frightened.

He got her to fill him a bath and find him some refreshment for he was hungry, he realised, though he did not know what he wanted. In the end he accepted a piece of cold apple pie and a glass of port in his study, where he sat, warm from the bath and exhausted, but fearing he would not sleep.