“Did you happen to see that American girl who just went past?” I asked.

She looked up. “I’m afraid I didn’t. I was concentrating on what I was writing. Was it someone you knew?”

“Someone I thought I recognized,” I said. “It’s strange that we were talking about Reynold Bryce last night because that girl looked just like the young girl in his paintings.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Oh, no, my dear. That can’t be possible,” she said. “He painted those portraits years ago. He’s been living in Paris for quite a while now. Miss Hetherington will know. She knows everything about the art world. But maybe later you and I could take a stroll on deck and see if we can spot this young woman again. You didn’t notice her in the dining salon last night, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said.

“Then maybe she is in first class. We’ll ask the others at luncheon. Let me know if she comes past again.” And she went back to her letter while I had to jump up to rescue Liam who was now crawling with determination toward the door. I would have to ask if there was possibly a baby carriage on board that I could use or I’d spend the whole time at sea chasing after him.

When we went into luncheon I looked around carefully but the girl wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I asked if any of the women had seen her. They hadn’t but Miss Hetherington was, as predicted, a font of information.

“I met Reynold Bryce several times at soirees in Boston back in the eighties,” she said. “In those days he was just making a name for himself. It was really the portraits of the young girl that put him on the map. He painted one every year for five years. Then he abandoned his whole career here and went off to Paris. He had become enamored of the Impressionist movement and the more modern style of painting that was being produced over in France, although I can’t say I favor it myself. Anyway, he just upped and left one day and hasn’t been back to the States since.” She looked up from her soup, pleased that we were all paying attention. “Of course one has to admit that he was born with talent. He is now one of the few Americans to have established himself as a leader among Impressionists. He’s a friend of Monet and, one hears, a wonderful mentor to young American artists. His salon is the place to be seen, so one is told.”

“The friend with whom I’ll be staying is an artist and has secured an introduction to him,” I said. “She hopes to be included in his upcoming exhibition.”