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sir, what’s your name?”
    â€œI am the ship’s doctor, Serge Chabron,” he replied, then shook his head as she tried to return his handkerchief. “No, please keep it. The voyage isn’t over yet!” He smiled again, then got to his feet and began rattling around in a metal drawer. “Headaches, you say?”
    Constance watched him flick through a row of small white boxes, embarrassed at the realization the pain was now completely gone.
    â€œHere,” he said, and handed her two thin boxes. “Some aspirin for the headaches, as well as some sleeping powders. If you can’t relax tonight, take one envelope with water before going to bed. Now, please allow me to walk you back to your cabin. I’m afraid I need to see to some passengers down in steerage.”
    Dr. Chabron locked the door to the infirmary, offered Constance his arm, then set a leisurely pace down to the second-class cabins.
    â€œTell me, then, are you from New York?” he inquired.
    â€œNo, I live in Massachusetts. I went to Paris to escort my sister home. She’s been living there a year now.”
    â€œAh, your sister lives in Paris? A beautiful place, don’t you agree?”
    â€œYes, of course,” she said, though there was a lack of enthusiasm in her voice. Having felt so out of place there, she had been nearly immune to its charms. “Are you from Paris as well?”
    â€œNo, I’m from Rennes. But, to tell you the truth, after fifteen years working aboard ships, I feel more at home when I’m at sea. I even spent the war on an ocean liner, when the France was turned into a hospital ship. An odd sight it was,” he recalled, creasing his brow, “men covered in bandages—some terribly burnt or missing limbs—sitting on elegant settees, surrounded by luxury.” As Constance murmured in commiseration, he quickly turned back to her, as if suddenly remembering to be charming. “Perhaps,” he said, resuming his jovial tone, “my land is simply the sea.”
    Walking down the corridor, with its flowered carpet and teardrop crystal lamps, Constance couldn’t picture it filled with wounded soldiers.
    When they reached the deck, Dr. Chabron pulled out a cigarette case. He offered one to Constance, which she declined, then lit one for himself. Pausing at the rails, he blew a smoke ring, then turned back to Constance.
    â€œDo you travel often, miss?”
    â€œNot at all! In fact, I’ve spent almost my whole life in the same town,” Constance said. “And your life here at sea . . . I can’t imagine! Never waking up in the same place, always raising the anchor and moving on to a different port.”
    â€œIt can be exciting”—Dr. Chabron smiled—“or quite dull. It depends on the weather, the crew, the passengers . . . But I always have several good novels in my cabin, just in case. They can always provide me with good company.”
    â€œI have three or four in my bag as well,” she said with a smile. “What kind of books do you like best?”
    â€œI read all kinds of things,” he said, opening the door to the cabins to let her pass through, “but at the moment, I’m reading a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories.”
    â€œReally?” she cried, her smile widening into a grin. “Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I love detective stories!”
    â€œYou don’t say?” He laughed. “Murder, drugs, beggars, poisons . . . Not the sort of thing all ladies go for.”
    â€œOh, come now,” she said, joining his laughter. “Who can resist a good mystery? Especially when, at the end, it can all be logically explained.”
    â€œMy, my,” he said, shaking his head in mock amazement. “A woman who likes grimy detective tales and logic!”
    They had arrived at her cabin and she stopped.
    â€œThank you for escorting me back to my