Malcolm steadied her through. “That’s a girl,” he said encouragingly.
Margo shuddered with sudden cold.
”Are you quite all right, my dear?”
Margo blinked The smiling, relaxed Malcolm with the easy American voice had gone completely. In his place stood a distinguished British gentleman peering anxiously down at her.
”Uh–yeah.”
Very gently, Malcolm drew her to one side, making room for other tourists. “Margo, the proper response to such a question is not ‘Uh, yeah.’ That’s terribly anachronistic here.”
Margo felt her cheeks burn. “All right,” she said in a low voice. “What should I have said?”
”You should have said, `Yes, sir, thank you kindly, it was just a passing dizziness. Might I have your arm for a moment more, please?’ To which I would naturally respond by offering to escort you to some place of rest where I might fetch you a glass of water or stronger spirits if such might be required.”
Margo was so fascinated by the archaic speech patterns and the wonderful sound of his voice, she almost forgot to pay attention to what he’d actually said. “All right. I mean, very well. I’ll …I’ll try, Malcolm, really I will.”
”Ah-ah,” he said with a smile. “Here, I am Mr. Moore. You are Miss Margo Smythe, my ward. Never fail to call me Mr. Moore. Anything else would be seen as unforgivably forward.”
Behind them, the gate had begun to shrink. Porters rushed through with the last of the luggage, then the gate into La-La land vanished into a tangle of brown vines and a high stone wall. For a terrible instant, Margo experienced complete panic. We’re out off…