#*hara

He too hates introductions when they are redundant. The invitation is her declaration of fearlessness enough. He lets her eyes flick up to his, then, dark and pleased, he puts his hand next to hers on the balustrade.

"We are," he translates the scene, "not yet so eager to entertain your departure."

Below the mob roars around the former palace walls to bay for death. Princess, the people. The people, princess.

"Is it true that you were fed pearls as a child to give you your good skin? It is a story I heard often. That your father, in feeding you, boiled all the seas in all his systems, and when there was nothing left, he made care to carve you your meals from teeth and bone."

prompts, accepting.

Lord Godalming trails behind in his trappings of grief, black coat, black cuffs, black manner.

Their host keeps a fine house, a fact he fastens to to the detriment of the dinner-party. They continue their sluggish tour up the staircase. Increasing details on each furnishing pour forth, unhampered by his guest's inattention.

Arthur can bear it no longer, this frittering. There is this woman pantomiming his own mind back to him.

"Spare this set the sight of your toilet, sir Humphrey."

Some heads turn to show their mock shock.

Sir Humphrey maintains his veneer: "Speak that again, Lord Godalming?"

The same heads turn back and forth, hopeful for something lurid to share to others when the evening is finished.

"I am tired," He treaties blankly. "I too should take some air."

Sir Humphrey offers back, inconsiderately specific, "The garden is not off-limits."