Free Crossing on the Paris by Dana Gynther Page B

to chance. In her lavender satin, she slowly entered the large room, which was already filled with people. Feeling self-conscious, she was ushered to a table toward the back; not the most prestigious place on the seating chart, she noted. Only one seat was empty; everyone else had arrived.
    She smiled around the table, which was made up mostly of men, and introduced herself. In turn, she met the others: two business partners from Holland with excellent English but unpronounceable names; a British military officer, Captain Fielding, a quarter of his face still pink and shiny from its reconstruction; and the Thomases, a married couple from Philadelphia.
    Mrs. Thomas, though probably only a half dozen years older than Constance, had already resigned herself to middle age; stout and serious, even here in the dining room of a luxury steamer, she was wearing a brown woolen suit. Constance smiled at Mrs. Thomas, her only female companion at the table, but received a rather cold nod in return. She was obviously not delighted to be sharing this group of male diners with such a young and attractive woman, particularly one who was traveling alone. Although she was a graying matron, Mrs. Thomas still maintained the quiet pout of a spoiled child.
    â€œWell, Mrs. Stone, what brings you on board the Paris ?” asked Captain Fielding. Obviously, before she’d arrived, this question andits complaisant answers had already made their way around the table.
    â€œI’ve been visiting relatives in France,” she replied, not wanting to attract any attention. “I’m returning home.”
    â€œFrance, you say?” repeated Captain Fielding. “How did you like eating frogs? And snails?” He made a face.
    â€œI’m afraid I didn’t try them,” she answered, smiling politely.
    â€œDid you just stay in France?” asked Mrs. Thomas, her brows knit in an exaggerated gesture of surprise. “You went all the way to Europe, but didn’t travel farther afield?”
    â€œNo, I was mostly in Paris.”
    â€œWhat a shame to cross the Atlantic and not visit Venice!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed.
    â€œAlthough it is my hometown, I can objectively say that Amsterdam is every bit as charming,” said one of the Dutchmen. “I daresay we have even more bridges and canals.”
    â€œHang the cities! The most beautiful place in Europe is the Alps,” argued Captain Fielding.
    A debate ensued of all the best places to go on the Continent, and Constance had visited none of them. Again, she sat in silence with a gracious smile on her face, as she had been doing for the previous two weeks.
    She had been prepared for questions about her trip alone, her family, her life, and this time around, she was determined not to discuss any of it. She had invented a tale about visiting an aunt, her Parisian husband, and their houseful of children, her fictitious cousins. She was even considering the idea of passing herself off as a widow. But these dining companions were not curious about her in the least. Constance felt greatly relieved and mildly snubbed.
    â€œThey might call this fine dining,” said Mr. Thomas with a chuckle, when the fish course arrived, “but back home we cut off the head and tail before bringing it to the table!”
    Constance was surprised at his willingness to expose his provincialbackground. She preferred her fish filleted as well, but would have never voiced this aloud.
    â€œDo you gentlemen fish in Europe?” Mr. Thomas inquired, absently straightening his hairpiece.
    The men went on to have a lively discussion of that sport, including a lengthy conjecture about the types of rods and reels one would need to fish directly off an ocean liner and exactly how long the line would have to be.
    â€œI’d say a hundred yards long . . . at least!” Captain Fielding guessed. “It would be like trying to fish off a ten-story building. And if you caught