”Oh!”
”I would suggest,” Malcolm said as they moved across the threshold into a surprisingly chilly drawing room, “that we refrain from discussing up-time affairs for the week, as far as possible. You are here to learn, certainly, but discussing anything from up time is very dangerous within earshot of people who understand the language you’re speaking. If you must ask a question, keep your voice down and try to ask it where others can’t hear you. I’ll pass along my advice under the same set of strictures.”
Again, Margo was trying to get the rhythm of Malcolm’s new speech patterns. “Very well, Mal-Mr. Moore.”
He patted her hand. “Very good, Miss Smythe. And now, if you would be so kind as to permit me, I will introduce you to London.”
He led her toward a warm coal fire and beckoned to a “servant” who brought steaming cups of tea.
”My dear, warm yourself while I see about our luggage and transportation.”
He signaled to John, who carried their steamer trunk toward a long front hall where other porters waited. Margo sipped astringent tea, grateful for the warmth; the room’s lingering chill surprised her. Other tourists were talking excitedly, admiring the furnishings, the rugs, the draperies, the view out the windows. Margo was a little envious of the women’s dresses. One elegantly attired lady smiled and approached her.
”That’s a charming costume,” she said. “What is it?”
Feeling vastly superior, Margo said, “It’s one of the most prestigious school uniforms in London, from the Royal Masonic Institution for Girls.” She dredged up Connie Logan’s lecture and added, “It was founded in Somers Town, London, by a chevalier in 1788.”