"Later," Irene agrees, smiling and thinking- does he want to sample the other flavours of debauchery on offer, does he want time to think, is he meeting people, does he want to wait until it's less crowded? "Here, then? In three hours?" There's no point in directing him to a private room, after all- for one thing, the Vault is enormous and occasionally labyrinthine, especially given its slightly surreal atmosphere and the proliferation of drugs and alcohol- and for another, there's no need to encourage guests to hang around the private rooms alone. She trusts him not to be an idiot, but exceptions are dangerous things to make.