The dimming skylight made it difficult to discern the flush of pink on Mr. Gladstone's cheek, but it wasn't too difficult to make out the expression that accompanied it. He'd offered to "get more acquainted", which could have been interpreted as a more formal question — if he wasn't the well-respected, wealthy Mr. Gladstone and she the nearly-disgraced Miss Scrimgeour. Besides, they were friends; the fuzzy feelings he gave her were irrelevant.

Besides, there were more alarming things that caught her attention.

He was from Ireland, which did nothing to shove the memories of that night with Mr. Crouch — and as such, the guilt that came from the kisses they'd shared — out of her mind. It wasn't fair to pay Mr. Gladstone her attention while secretly cavorting with a "rake" behind his back. (Not that it was really "behind his back"; she and Mr. Gladstone weren't an item, but even then it didn't stop the guilt that she equate with the guilt of infidelity.)

"I wouldn't be opposed to that at all," she responded quietly, almost shyly. She wanted to add "though you might have to bear the misfortune of being seen with me outside of work for that to happen", but decided on the less self-deprecating: "You'd think friends—" She used that word lightly. "—would know the simple things. Favorite colors, birthdays, hobbies..." She didn't add family, because that would open up a whole new can of worms.