”London stinks,” Margo whispered. “Like a barnyard. And that fog smells awful.”
”London is full of horses,” Malcolm whispered back.
”Some hundred tons of manure fall on London streets every day.”
”Every day?’
”Daily,” Malcolm affirmed. “And the fogs have been known to kill hundreds in a single day. If you find it difficult to breathe, you must tell me at once and we’ll take a train for the country until the worst of it clears.”
”I can breathe,” Margo whispered, “it just isn’t pleasant. Are we going to a hotel?”
”Actually, no. We’ll stay at a boarding house near Victoria Station for the night, then rent a flat on the morrow. That will give us privacy to come and go without undue notice. John, here, will be staying on at the flat once we’ve gone.”
”Mr. Carson be terrible gen’rous, Mr. Moore,” John said in the darkness.
Margo giggled. “You sound so funny.”
”He sounds exactly as he should,” Malcolm said sternly. “You do not. Charity schoolgirls are demure and silent, not giggling, brash things given to rude comments.”
”Well, excuse me,” Margo muttered.
”Certainly not. Study your part, young lady. That is an order.”
Margo sighed. Another domineering male …She almost looked forward to trading the schoolgirl getup for the rough clothes of a country farmer or the even rougher getup of a costermonger. Masquerading as a boy, she wouldn’t need to worry so much about observing all these confining social conventions. She began to catch a glimmer of what Kit had meant when he’d insisted women would have a rough go of it trying to scout.