“Mr. Twain,” I said, feeling more than a little foolish, “while I am a great admirer of your work … Well, sir, since the influenza, I—I dream of drowning, and sailing would be—”

“—just the thing!” he exclaimed. “Like getting back up onto a horse after you’ve been thrown.”

Then it happened. Clear as a bell, I heard Lillie’s dear remembered voice. The best time for Cairo is March, she said. And then go on to Jerusalem, as I did …

You can wear the silk charmeuse, Mildred added.

“What about Rosie?” I asked, my hand running down her back as she snuggled in my lap. “I have a small dog—”

“That will be no problem at all!” the putative Mr. Twain assured me warmly. “Take her with you, dear lady. All the best ocean liners are delighted to accommodate the pets of valued guests such as yourself.”

Of course, it didn’t take a great deal in the way of deductive reasoning to work out that Madame Sophie was the inamorata of a gentleman who ran the Thomas Cook Travel Agency, located one door down the corridor from her second-floor salon, but I simply didn’t care. Within the hour, I had booked passage on a steamship to Egypt. And then? I drove directly from Cook’s to Halle’s to consult Mildred about a wardrobe for warm weather, and bought a beautiful set of matched luggage to contain it.

As you can imagine, Mumma argued nonstop, the whole day long. It’s nerves, she said as I steered the electric off Carnegie and angled up the hill toward Cedar Glen. You’ve no regular work, nothing to take you outside yourself. You have a great deal to be grateful for, right here at home, young lady.

I’ve been good all my life, I told myself and Mumma. I’ve been oh, so good for oh, so long! Just once, I’d like to trade good for happy.

I suppose now you’ll tell me you can buy happiness.