Then Malcolm told her he’d been in touch with some friends who were in town for the Season. An invitation for dinner had been received and duly accepted. She panicked. “What should I do? What should I say?”
”As little as possible,” Malcolm said dryly.
She managed a smile. Don’t screw this up was the message, loud and clear. Of course; a scout wouldn’t have to worry about things like formal social evenings with the British peerage very often …. She dreaded returning to the book work she knew would be waiting for her on the time terminal. Learning by doing was so much more interesting. But she clearly needed some of that tedious cultural and historical reading. She held back a shudder. Margo had learned more about Victorian England in three days than she would have in three years cooped up in some stuffy classroom.
”Well,” she said philosophically, “everyone keeps telling me charity girls are supposed to be demure and silent. I can always blush and stammer out something silly and let you rescue me.”
”That’s one solution. In this case, actually not a bad one, since socially you are not yet `out.’ Have you been reading the newspapers as I suggested?”
”They’re weird.”
”And the magazines?”
”No photographs. Just those dull black-and-white etchings.”
”You’re supposed to be reading the articles,” he said, brows twitching down in exasperation.
”Well, I can’t make sense of half of them.”
”Ah,” was all the comment he made.
”Yeah, yeah, I know. I have a lot to learn.”
”Yes,” he said, looking down that extremely British nose of his, “you do.”