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‘What’s the matter? Is the free food not up to scratch?’
    ‘My name is Ryan,’ said Stephen coldly. ‘And you’re a pig, Devereux.’
    ‘Oh? And you can talk,’ Devereux grinned at his friends, who were still loosely crowded around. ‘I’m sorry; did I offend you by teasing the suffragette? Well, maybe I spoke too soon. Maybe she can get herself a man after all – if she doesn’t mind taking one from the slums.’
    Stephen’s voice was barely audible through the guffaws from the others. ‘You watch your mouth.’
    ‘Why? Are you going to make me?’ Devereux pushed himself closer, his eyes going hard. ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’ He placed his hand on Stephen’s chest and pushed provocatively.
    ‘I wouldn’t waste my time.’
    ‘Oh, well I would,’ Devereux said, and punched him low in the stomach.
    It wasn’t a very hard blow but Devereux knew what he was doing, and the breath went out of Stephen in a loud whoosh as he doubled over. Pain and nausea washed up from the pit of his stomach and for a moment he teetered on the brink, thinking he might actually throw up. But then he seemed to regain equilibrium. The nausea passed and he felt cold anger driving him upright again. Devereux wasn’t expecting that; he’d already started to turn away, and only saw him out of the corner of his eye. Stephen swung back and hit him as hard as he could on his exposed left cheek. The blow wasn’t as expertly delivered as Devereux’s, but it was much, much harder. It connected with his jawbone and sent him staggering back against the table.
    Stephen watched him go down and felt the first stirrings of triumph, mingled with disbelief. Then something heavy hit him in the back and he went down himself, falling to the floor under a welter of bodies.
    After the heat and press of the ballroom, the cool air of the patio felt refreshingly clear. There was a stone seat near the doorway and Lillian sat there for a few moments, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She was glad she’d got out before the tears came. She hadn’t cried since – well, since the White Star man came to tell them her father’s ship was lost.
    Even then she’d managed to hold it in. She’d known the moment she saw him standing on the doorstep. He was a little nondescript man in a grey raincoat, but she’d known before he ever opened his mouth that something dreadful had happened. Still, she kept her composure. She showed him into the sitting room and offered him tea, and sat with her mother and sister as he told them the ship had struck an iceberg and sunk. When he finally explained that her father was not among the survivors, that there was no hope, none at all, the other two had broken down crying, but not Lillian. She had asked the questions that needed to be asked. Was there a body? What about the funeral?
    Afterwards, when she was alone in her room, she cried for her father. She cried until the tears wouldn’t come any more. He’d been away at sea for most of her life, but that made the time he was home all the sweeter, and she’d grown used to waiting for him; the pleasurable anticipation, the knowledge that every voyage out had an inevitable return. But not this voyage. To think he’d died alone and cold in the water was almost more than she could bear. The man said he’d done his duty; remained calm, helped people and probably saved lives, but that was small comfort to her. Small comfort, too, to know that she’d behaved as he would have wished – the calm one, the rock in the midst of the storm.
    But damn Devereux for . . . Damn his impertinence! She was trying to calm herself, but she knew she was in a proper state. Her hand was still smarting from the slap – though she wasn’t sorry about that. No, she was only sorry she’d let it get that far. She should have just walked away when she saw him coming. At least she would have saved herself the embarrassment.
    In fact, she thought, she should never have come. And