‘Alasdair is not yet returned from his meeting,’ Eleanor replied, extricating her hand and taking a small step back. Her voice was quite normal, she observed. Was it not her habit to stare dismay in the face?

‘Of course. He was at Newtown, was he not? And were you at the meeting at Newtown with your husband?’ Drummond-Smith might have relinquished her hand but he still stood closer than politeness seemed to warrant. ‘Odd, but I could not make you out …’

‘Says the fellow who spent the entire day at the races and never set foot in Newtown—and quite likely could not locate it on a map if called upon to do so,’ observed Fraser Pyke, who apparently had overhead this exchange and now came over, leaning his lanky figure against a handily placed bust of John Blaxland and attempting to light a cigar.

Drummond-Smith ignored this and awaited Eleanor’s reply with a steady gaze. He had cornered her once in the ladies’ lounge, raised her hand to his lips and made a proposal as improper as it was unwelcome and took umbrage when she had cast him off.

‘Naturally I would have liked to attend,’ Eleanor replied, returning his gaze steadily, though he frightened her a little. ‘Unfortunately there was no room in the cab, and in this dreadful rain we failed utterly to secure a second cab. I am afraid, faced with such impediments to my journey, I reluctantly took the decision to remain at home.’

‘Very wise,’ said Pyke.

‘A most noble sacrifice,’ said Everett Judd, bowing to her gallantly.

‘And your husband does not join us this evening after his triumph?’ Drummond-Smith went on, relentless, his unblinking grey eyes seeing everything and making certain one knew it.

‘Do we know for a fact it was a triumph?’ said Mr Pyke, puffing away vigorously at his cigar.

‘What else could it be?’ said Everett Judd.

‘No doubt it was a triumph and no doubt Alasdair will be here,’ said Eleanor, speaking as a wife does speak of her husband, with utter belief and conviction.

Alasdair Dunlevy had not forgotten about the Premier’s reception but he was among the last to arrive. He had only to travel from Newtown, but his secretary had failed to secure a parliamentary carriage and had been forced to find a hansom cab, a task that, in this relentless rain, had proved a challenge.

It was an inauspicious end to what had otherwise been a successful night. The meeting had gone well, the turn-out, despite the inclement weather, had been good, the mood positive, triumphant even. Yes, the mood had swung momentarily in the other direction, but it had been easily recovered. The secretary, James Greensmith, had eventually secured a cab and they had ridden to Macquarie Street.