"Poverty-stricken children-orphans, children with destitute parents-were sometimes taken in by charitable institutions," Malcolm explained "There were dozens of schools supported by patrons and patronesses. Children wore uniforms and numbered badges to identify them.. Because sanitation was a problem and head lice were common, even girls' hair was cut short."

"Head lice?" Margo grabbed the sides of her head, instinctively trying to protect her scalp from an invasion of vermin.

Kit cleared his throat "Sanitation in Victorian London was quite a bit better than many places you'll end up as a scout. Head lice-and other nasties--can be eliminated once you get back."

Margo just stared, overcome with an intense desire to be . She hadn't thought about lice. The more she studied for this job, the clearer it became there was a great deal she hadn't thought about.

"Well, I'm not quitting," she said stubbornly, straightening her spine. "Nobody ever died from having head lice!"

Malcolm exchanged glances with Kit, who said repressively, "Millions have done just that. The point is, you keep yourself as clean as you can and deal with medical problems when you return. If you return. Why do you think you're required to receive so many inoculations before coming to a time terminal? Up time, we don't even vaccinate for smallpox any longer. It's an extinct disease. Yet even in someplace as relatively sanitary as Denver of the 1890's you could still contract it. Not to mention lockjaw or blood poisoning from a simple cut or scrape. So you take your medicine, keep yourself clean, and hope you don't come back with anything Medical can't handle.

"Now, I think this charity girl idea's a good one, but that leaves us with another question, Malcolm. Namely, how to explain your association with her. You're known in London."

"Fairly well, in certain circles," Malcolm agreed.

"So people will know you wouldn't have a reason to associate with a charity girl of eighteen. And her accent's all wrong, anyway, to pose as a British orphan."

"The few people I know down time believe me to be an eccentric gentleman from British Honduras-which helps explain away the occasional wobble or two in my accent."

Margo blinked. He'd sounded astonishingly British during that sentence, which he hadn't before. In fact, given the small amount of stage training she'd had, she'd have bet everything she owned it had been genuine, not affected.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?" He sounded American again, as American as Minnesota winters.

"Sound British? I thought you were American."

Malcolm grinned. "Good. I've studied hard to sound like that. Heading down time to Denver with an English accent isn't a good idea. Fortunately I have a quick ear and years of practice. But I was born in England." He cleared his throat and glanced away. "I survived The Flood, actually."

Margo said breathlessly, "The Flood? From The Accident?"

Malcolm rubbed the back of one ear. "Well, yes. I was just a kid. We lived in Brighton, you see, near the seaside. We ran a little tourist hostel during the summers. My family was lucky. We only lost my elder brother when the house caved in."

Margo didn't know what to say. The English coast had been wiped out by tidal waves. All the coastlines of the world had been hit hard. Several dozen cities had been reduced to rubble and the ensuing chaos, rampant epidemics, and starvation had reshaped world politics forever. Margo hadn't been old enough to remember it. She forgot, sometimes, that most of the people on this time terminal did remember the world before the time gates and the accident which had caused them.

She wondered quite suddenly if that was why her father had been the way he was. Had he blamed himself all those years ago for her brother's death, then found himself unable to cope with the changed world? She shivered, not wanting to sympathize with him, but something in Malcolm's voice had triggered memories of her father during his more sober moments. The look in her father's eyes during those moments echoed the desperate struggle not to remember she saw now in Malcolm's dark eyes.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. I didn't know."

He managed a smile. "How could you? Don't dwell on it. I don't. Now, what were we saying? Oh yeah, my background. The people I know down time think I'm a gentleman from British Honduras, with no visible means of support and no daily job to distract me from gentlemanly pursuits. -I just happen to have a lot of wealthy, scatterbrained friends who pay me visits from the other side of the water, particularly America.." He grinned. "That way it's natural for my tourists to gawk at the sights. Londoners in the 1880's considered Americans boorish provincials just this side of savagery."

Margo sniffed. "How rude."

Connie laughed "Honey, you don't know the half of it. Victorian Londoners took class consciousness to new extremes." She gestured to the Britannia section of her shop. "It's why I carry such a varied line of costumes for the Britannia Gate. Clothes said everything about our station in life. Wear the wrong thing and you make me a laughingstock--"

"Or worse," Kit put in.

"--or you just blend into the background and become invisible."

Malcolm nodded "Yes. But you have to be careful. The wrong clothing could get you hauled off to jail or Bedlam Hospital to be locked in with the other madwomen."

Margo shivered. "What about this charity girl stuff, then?"

"Well," Malcolm said, glancing at Kit, "given my reputation as something of an eccentric, it wouldn't be out of character for me to sponsor a young girl who'd been orphaned in a cholera epidemic, say, or by one of the tropical fevers that laid so many Europeans low in Honduras. You could be the child of some friend or even a relative. A niece, maybe, brought back to England for schooling."

Kit was nodding. "I like it. All right, choose something appropriate. Connie, why don't you fit her out while Malcolm and I update his wardrobe? If he's going to keep up his reputation in London, I suspect he'll need a new item or two. And you'll need a couple of `ink' getups as well, I think, so your down-time friends don't recognize you when you two go slumming."

Connie beamed. "Help yourselves. Gosh, I love it when scouts and guides put their heads together and go shopping!"

Kit groaned. Malcolm laughed. "Don't worry, Kit. I'll try to be gentle with your budget."

"Pray do, sir," Kit drolled. "It isn't unlimited, you know."

They strolled off in the direction of the men's clothing. Margo watched them go. "They're..." She pause, suddenly embarrassed.

"There what?" Connie asked curiously.

"Nothing," Margo mumbled. She'd been about to say, `There really sweet, aren't they?" but had stopped herself just in time. She'd gotten where she was by being tough and uncaring. Now wasn't the time to let down her guard, not with her dreams almost within grasp. But she couldn't help thinking it. They were sweet. Even Kit, when he wasn't glowering at her for whatever she'd done wrong most recently A flash of insight told Margo he glowered because he didn't really know how to talk to her.

That was all right. She didn't really know how to talk to him, either, not without a whole retinue of defenses in place. A smart mouth and a lifelong habit of sarcasm skillfully combined with pouting frowns and winning smiles-weren't exactly the most useful skills if she wanted to learn more about this man as a human being, rather than a legend.

Get real, Margo. Remember the fish pond. Try to get better acquainted with him--with either of them-and you'll have to talk about yourself. The less said on that subject, the better. For everyone concerned.

Margo sighed unhappily, earning as long, curious look from Connie, then she shook herself free of the mood and said brightly, "Okay, about this charity-girl costume. Show me!"