They wanted to know where I lived in New York and I said, quite truthfully, that my last place of residence had been in the East Fifties. They were impressed by this and then peppered me with questions about people they knew, or knew of, in New York. My answers were so vague or so unexciting to them that they finally shifted the conversation to people they had spotted in first class and snippets of gossip they had overheard. The menu was a hearty beef stew followed by an apple tart. Not elegant but tasty, confirming that the French know how to cook. After dinner we lingered over coffee and I was relieved to find Liam still sleeping.

“I have decided that I shall take the top bunk after all,” Miss Pinkerton said as we made our way back to our cabin. “I have trained myself not to use the facilities during the night, so I should be just fine and you will be able to reach your little one, should the need arise.”

I thanked her profusely. We each went to the bathroom to change into nightclothes and then fell asleep. Liam was exemplary, sleeping until the steward woke us with a cup of coffee. We had a breakfast of rolls and jam, then I seated myself at one of the windows in the lounge and let Liam play with the wooden animals he had been given by Cuddles’s nanny. I had found a French magazine and attempted to read the articles, hoping to brush up my long-forgotten French. It was fascinating to see pictures of French fashions and Parisian society. A steward brought me more coffee and biscuits. I was beginning to think that I might be in for a pleasant time after all and felt a pang of guilt for poor Daniel, trying to complete his dangerous task while bunking down in someone else’s house without the support of his wife.

While I sat there a continuous procession passed by on the deck outside, taking their morning constitutional, enjoying the bright sea air. I let the low hum of French conversation wash over me as they passed, punctuated now and then by a voice raised in exclamation. “Mon dieu? C’est vrai?” Or even, “Ooh la la!”

I smiled to myself and went back to my magazine. But when I finally heard an American voice saying, “You can’t stop me. I’m grown up and know my own mind!” I looked up. A young girl was striding out, as if annoyed, ahead of a sallow woman in an old-fashioned bonnet who had to break into a run to keep up with her.

“Eleanor,” she called. “That is no way to behave. You are too headstrong by half and it will lead to your downfall.”

Then they passed me and were gone. I continued to stare at their retreating backs, then turned to Miss Pinkerton, who was sitting in another window, writing a letter.