Oh, a Londoner. A proper one, not a transplant like John. He rolls his shoulders, half a shrug, addressing her from around his cigarette.

"I would, at that," he says, reaching into his coat for the pack, tapping one out. "Suppose you need a light as well, luv?" Though one never knows--she could have a lighter tucked into one of the pockets of that attention-getting coat. Still, he's got an odd sense of being-a-gentleman at times, the least he can do is offer.