“Ah, there you are,” she said, giving me a nod of satisfaction. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about again. So the boiled egg did the trick, did it? I knew it would. My friends also came to breakfast today looking like death warmed over. Miss Hetherington had to force Miss Schmitt to eat an egg. ‘It’s for your own good,’ she told her. We can’t have anyone lagging behind on the tour.” She looked at the open closet door. “Ah, I see you have your things ready for repacking. I believe the trunks are in the hall outside. I’ll bring yours in and help you pack. I don’t suppose you’re up to that yet.”

She did and packed with great efficiency while Liam and I watched. Finally the news came that we could clear immigration in the second-class lounge and then were free to go ashore. Porters arrived to whisk away the luggage. I thanked my patient steward and tipped him as generously as I was able. He wished me and “le petit” well and Miss Pinkerton helped us up to the lounge and then, after the minimum of formalities, toward the gangplank. The bright sunlight was so strong after days in my windowless cabin that I stood blinking and almost blinded.

“Come along, my dear.” Miss Pinkerton took my arm firmly and led me down the gangway to the dock below. We located the porter with my luggage and followed him through customs before emerging to the street beyond with the station on one side and a line of horse-drawn cabs at the curb. I fought to keep my balance as the ground still rocked under me as if I was at sea.

“I must send a telegram to my friends telling them which train I am taking,” I said to Miss Pinkerton, who was still standing beside me. “They promised to meet me at the station.”

“Very well. Leave the luggage and your child here with me.” She turned to the porter. “Attendez ici. Elle va à la gare,” she said in an atrocious French accent.