Amelia was about to retort that she knew it was called America. "Colonies" was simply a British colloquialism. The comment died in her throat when the man referred to an impossibility.
Airplanes.
To her logical mind, there were only three explanations. She was mad, he was mad, or this was all true and she was further from home than she had thought.
Amelia knew with absolute certainty that she was in full charge of her mental capacities. And while the man was certainly odd, even a bit eccentric, she did not imagine he had actually succumbed to madness. Which left only the other option.
Where was she? Or perhaps the question was actually when was she?
Even as she was puzzling this out, she had still listened to her companion well enough to catch his name. Most of the rest she had dismissed, or rather, let float passed her with little attention. But his introduction sparked an idea.
A performer!
Amelia pounced on the idea, wondering if it was all an act. Airplanes, for heaven's sake! Yet somehow she knew this wasn't a part of any performance. Amelia considered herself an excellent judge of character, and while he might be a bit flighty, his responses to her inquiries were too quick to be anything but sincere, even if his attitude wasn't. As her temper deflated, her grip on the parasol relaxed- but she wasn't so foolish as to let it relax too much.
"Mr. McFarland, I fear I am even more displaced than I had first anticipated. Most of what you are saying sounds preposterous to me, yet I suspect you are not attempting to intentionally confuse me."
Taking the high road, Amelia shifted her attitude. One of them had to be reasonable, if she was going to get some answers. And despite the fact that he also seemed to be from somewhere else, he appeared to be far less concerned about it than she was.
"Did you plan arriving here, or was it rather abrupt? And, just a curious question- what year was it when you... and Cher left your home?"