Dear Diary,

I'm afraid I've neglected you dreadfully, but who knew that travel did not agree with Mr. Trout? I'm afraid he's spent the entire journey leaning over the ship's prow with mal du mer. The poor man. I stood by with smelling salts and a soothing hand on his (when he didn't jerk away), and whenever he was done, I'd daub his temples with a silk handkerchief simply dripping with essence of lavender. Then I'd lick the handkerchief just a little, and wipe away the sick from the corners of his mouth. Finally he'd regard me with bleary eyes and say, "God almighty, why? Why me?" in a heart-rending sort of way.

"Oh, it's just a little sea-sickness," I'd tell him.

He would let out another of those pitable moans. "Not that!" he'd bleat. Then he'd make a big gesture at me and my smart navy blue nautical-inspired ensemble with the gold piping, which so cunningly matched my turquoise shirt and ruby-red socks and the darling attache case that easily doubled as a doctor's bag. I inserted my monocle before my eye and regarded him curiously. Whatever could he mean?

But I meant to write all about the packing for the trip. Mr. Trout had no idea how to go about it. Apparently he had envisioned travelling to Paris with nothing but a pair of riding trousers, a smoking jacket, and several cowboy hats stuffed into a leather bag. "Oh no no no no no no no!" I cried in his apartment, on seeing his intentions. "This won't do!" So I went through his wardrobe (and my dears, the less said about his undergarments, the better . . . I've seen fewer holes in a rusted sieve) and into a steamer trunk I folded and pressed quite a number of good suits, shoes, and jackets.

But what simply amazed me was that Mr. Trout had filled a number of carrying cases with an astonishing quantity of weapons. Revolvers, rifles, pistols, daggers, swords . . . my goodness, it looked like we were going to be joining Annie Oakley's road show! (And as we all remember from the Choo Choo Club's Western Follies, I do not look good in knee boots!) Knowing that in gay Paree we wouldn't have time for any of that hunting and gathering nonsense, I thoughtfully removed all those vile accoutrements of war and filled up the bags with all sorts of dainty comestibles I found in the Trout's kitchen. Lots of ladyfingers, some fruit, and lots of raspberry jam. I've never been to Paris but my friend Charles tells me it's ever so difficult to get something good and sticky there. And you do know how much attention in the mornings I pay to my baguette.

I didn't tell Mr. Trout, though. I thought it would be a nice surprise when he was peckish. And speaking of surprises, won't Mrs. Trout's secretary Mavis have one when she pulls back the covers of her bed! (That's where I put all the weapons.)

I had just enough time to dash back downtown to break the news to mummy and daddums, pack my own valise, and see that Mr. Trout (who smelled suspiciously of strong drink) and his bags were put into the cab. I did try to say goodbye to my dear doorman friend Bruce, who had been so helpful to me, but he was deep in an argument with a gentleman with quite a nasty scar on his face. Pity!

So between bouts of scenting Mr. Trout with lavender and putting him to bed, poor thing, I've had very little to do except socialize with some very artistic sailors, Pierre and 'Mimi,' in the hold. They just adore my Isadora Duncan imitation.

Do you believe in coincidence? It's very strange, but I was just writing down those last words when a gentleman sat down at the table across from me . . . and it was that fellow with the scar on his cheek I saw arguing with Bruce outside the Imperial Sheridan! Isn't that odd!

He was not exactly the most friendly fellow, but after he bought me three or four or seven Pink Ladies I found myself telling him all sorts of things, like how Mr. Trout had hired me, and how we were going to Paris to meet up with a Count, and how the Trouts have simply oodles of money, and how Mrs. Trout has more pearls and jewelry than even Marie Antoinette had, and . . . . oh my, I even seem to recall sketching out the floorplans of the swank Trout apartment in the Imperial Sheridan, and even Mr Trout's stateroom! I must have been a bit tipsy! Mr. LaCicatrice (that's the fellow's name) just listened to it all, tipped me five dollars, paid the bill, and left.

Oh dear, I seem to have mislaid my wallet.

And oh dear, that sheaf of highly confidential business papers Mr. Trout gave me to hold when he was unfurling the intestinal sails over the rail-it's missing too! I know I had it on me earlier in the evening, before I let that darling Mr. LaCicatrice help me off with my British sailor's coat with the burnished silver buttons in the shape of darling little anchors.

Do you think I could have lost them when Pierre was showing me how to haul my keel?

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