The hair on the back of her neck bristled at his first comment, unfinished though it was. She bit the inside of her lower lip to prevent herself from speaking, because the comments that rose immediately were argumentative and unhelpful, and she recognized that. Still: a less gentlemanly man might make assumptions? Was it only because he was a perfect gentleman, then, that he had limited his assumptions about her to supposing that she had any desire at all to be married or that she was too disagreeable to manage it? Here he was speaking of assumptions, yet she was sure he was picturing her sitting alone at home with her mother, sad and lonely and probably unintelligent, since she'd left school without completing. Poor, tragic spinster Juliana. She would almost rather strangers assumed she was a whore.

That was just being difficult, though, because of course she didn't really want anyone to think that. She knew from experience that men could grow bolder when they had those sorts of assumptions in mind, and while she had a wand and could defend herself she certainly didn't relish the thought. She didn't want her supposed bad behavior to reflect back on her parents, either. The floo would solve two problems: it would prevent her from having to interact with strange men until she'd had a chance to change clothes, and it might allow her to arrive back home before her mother, saving a lengthy and difficult conversation when she saw Juliana's dress.

"Fine. Alright," she agreed eventually, though she still didn't sound happy about it. She moved to his side and grabbed on to his arm, too tight. Presumably wherever they were going was closer than the entire length of the British Isles, but she still had no desire to be splinched.