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"You practically threw yourself into his arms," Catherine said, nodding with a grouchy face at her sister. "You frightened him," she charged. "I told you not to be so aggressive. Canadian boys are like American boys, right, cherie? They don't like their women to be, how do you say, in their faces. Am I not right, cherie?"

Why was it, I wondered, that everyone I met here thought I was some kind of an expert when it came to romance and men? Was it the clothes I wore? The way I walked, some gesture? When Mama was in a fun mood, she would slide her eyes from side to side and say, "You're going to be some heartbreaker, honey."

"I don't know much about Canadian men," I said. "Randall is actually the first boy from Canada I have ever met, and as for American men, most of the ones I know want to take advantage of you as quickly as they can. They'd love to have you in their faces."

"So?" Leslie shrugged. "What is wrong with that?" she cried and they looked at each other and giggled.

"What is wrong with that? They don't respect you," I said. "That's what's wrong with that."

They both grew serious for a moment as if I had introduced a whole new idea.

"You mean you think a man will respect you only if you are frigid?" Catherine inquired.

"No, not frigid. I'm not saying you have to be the ice queen or anything, but you shouldn't just lay back like a piece of meat on a platter," I told her.

Again, they both laughed. They were beginning to annoy me.

"Why is that so funny?"

"We don't think of ourselves as pieces of meat, but perhaps we think that of some of the boys we've been with, eh, Catherine?"

"Oui. Big sausage, eh?"

They smiled licentiously and nodded.

"Maybe things are different for you and where you're from," I muttered dryly, looking toward the doorway for Randall to rescue me from this

conversation.

"You are much too serious, cherie," Leslie said, She put her hand on my hand. "Being in love, having a lover, this should be amusing, too?"

"Amusing?"

"Maybe that's not the right word. Catherine?"

"Joyful, pleasureful," Catherine explained. "If you moan and groan and sigh and cry over every little kiss and touch, you will miss the raison d'etre, the reason to be. To be is to enjoy.-Joie de vivre, no?"

I thought about the gloom back at Endfield Place: Boggs growling at everyone, Mary Margaret whimpering and shy, Mrs. Chester a work hog, and my formal and stiff great-uncle and -aunt barely showing any feeling for each other.

"Maybe you're right," I said as Randall returned.

"Right about what?" he asked.

"Making love," Leslie eagerly offered. "What?"

"Shouldn't we get started?" I asked quickly. "Making love?" Leslie teased.

"Making love to the sights of London," I countered and they laughed again.

"Touche, cherie. Come, show us your London, Monsieur Glenn," Catherine declared, jumping up. She put her arm through Randall's and tugged him toward the front door. He looked back at me helplessly. Leslie and I followed and we all headed for the underground and our day on the Thames.

As Randall had planned, we took a sightseeing boat up the river and stopped at the Tower of London. Now that he had three of us in his party, Randall was even more of a guide, but he didn't fool around as he had with me. He remained as serious as a

schoolteacher.

"William the Conqueror founded the Tower. It has served as a military citadel, a royal residence, a political prison, mint, observatory and repository of royal property from precious documents to jewels.

"Those men in the brilliant red, black and gold outfits are known as Yeoman Warders," he said.