"That is enough," she said. "Take our luggage to a motor cab."
"To the Yankee Consulate?"
"To the Consulate of the United States! Do you hear? Move, then!" she said crisply.
It was raining torrents; Guild held the sullen porter's umbrella while Karen entered the cab; the luggage was stowed, the vehicle wheeled out into rain-shot obscurity.
Karen turned impulsively to the man beside her: "Forgive my rudeness; I am ashamed to have insulted your Consulate."
He flushed, but his lips twitched humorously; "I am sure that the United States very freely forgives Fräulein Girard."
"Do you?"
"Does it matter?" he asked lightly.
"Yes. Are my amends acceptable to you?"
"Of course. But what am I—Karen——"