Catherine did not at first know what to make of Geoffrey Macadam.
Did his stiffness betoken mere British reserve, or was he trying to
hide a natural annoyance at having a stranger thrust upon him,
threatening the peace of his journey to Paris?
If the latter, she longed to tell him how hotly she shared his
resentment, how for eight days across the Atlantic she had been
fleeing from the officious patronage of the lady now needlessly
effecting the introduction.
“It’s no fault of mine,” her eyes strove to convey. “I promise not to
take advantage of it!”
The very next instant she caught that curious, almost startled look on
his face which set her wondering, asking herself if he were really as
wooden as she had imagined.