“You do not sound so glad.”
“This is just the way that I speak.”
“Then perhaps the second lesson should be to speak in a gentler tone,” he remarked. “You sound as though you are angry at all times.”
“I suppose life has given me enough to be angry about,” she said, surprising herself with her own honesty. But she chalked it down to the lateness of the hour, and not that it was just easy to be honest to him.
“Possibly,” he agreed and did not probe further. She felt grateful for that.
“Second principle: manner before content. The way you look at a man will tell him whether you wish to speak long before you find a subject worthy of the effort.”
“I do look,” she said, indignant. “I have eyes.”
“You do notkeepthem,” he said. “You check the door for escape routes between every sentence. We will practice. Pretend I am a suitor. You may decide later whether that is an insult.”
“Pretend,” she repeated faintly.
“Conversation,” he said, “Begin.”
Her mind presented her with a parade of useless thoughts. The lamp is lovely. I like currants. Do you think lemons are the superior fruit? She grabbed for something less ridiculous and came up with: “Did you… Enjoy the weather today?”
“No one enjoys the weather. They endure it. Next.”
She bristled at his tone.
“Do not be cruel.”
“I am saving you from a week of cruelty,” he said. “Men are adept at delivering it. We must make you interesting enough that they forget to try.”
She folded her hands in her lap so he would not see them clench. “
Very well. What would you like me to say?”
“I would like you to say something you mean,” he said. “Barring that, use a structure. Three questions that do not sound like interrogation. One truth about yourself that a man may carry away as a prize. Try again. Ask me a question that would make your life easier if you knew the answer.”
She imagined the ballroom. Men approaching like tasks.
“What is your favorite book?” she said.
He brightened. “Better.”
“Do not praise me like a child.”
“Very well.” He pretended to consider. “My favorite book is whichever one is at hand when I need it. When I am angry, Plutarch. When I am bored, Horace.”
“You are a lover of philosophy?” Her brows drew together.
“Now, askwhythat is my answer. Not in those words. Something like: Does reading make you less angry, or does it only give you new words for it?”
“That is very particular.” She blinked.
“Language is particular,” he said calmly. “Try it. See if it fits.”
“Does reading make you less angry, or only give you new words for it?”
“That depends on the day,” he answered. “Next question.”
“If you were to leave London tomorrow,” she said, gathering courage from the way the game worked, “where would you go and what would you hope not to find there?”