"That might," he says, moving toward a chair, "be the first time I've been suggested to possess any etiquette."

He smiles--well, it can almost be called that, almost, it's sort of there and gone, sliding into existence with one breath and out with the next. And while he approaches a chair, he does not take the seat, leaning against it instead, elbow bent, his forearm braced against the high back. "I could almost say my dear brother might be pleased that such an accusation was leveled were I not convinced he would instead find every reason why it was impossible."

He remains on his feet but the chair is still partway between himself and Irene, an unconscious barrier, perhaps? "Did you have to wait long to have your windows replaced? I heard the damage was ghastly in some parts of the city after the monsters." And there, one of the abrupt changes of subject he's so fond of, as much a verbal manifestation of the nonstop motion of his mind as it is a disarming tactic, helpfully startling most off-balance.

...Most. They both know just how much of this exchange is so much artifice, a show most others would fall for, but no, not these two. And yet the game must be played, masks worn.