In the pressure of the moment, she couldn’t make a decision on the etiquette – was it more polite to accept and let Mr. Echelon-Arnost be a gentleman, or to refuse and insist that he sat, because he might be tired of standing? Callista had wronged him once before, and badly: the last thing she wanted to do was, even in a small way, wrong him again.
So she had made an acquiescent move towards the single chair, but paused there, settling a hesitant hand on the back of it and glancing uncertainly at him again. “...If you’re sure?”
He seemed oddly wrought with tension, in his stance and his expression. She had knocked his cane. Did he need to sit, or was it just the fact of her presence all to blame? Or – was she looking too much at him, and inventing a hurt that wasn’t there?
Callista bit her lip. (And then realised that she had, and so hurriedly un-bit her lip, trying to find a lightness and composure she didn’t feel.) “Are you – I mean, have you been well?”
So she had made an acquiescent move towards the single chair, but paused there, settling a hesitant hand on the back of it and glancing uncertainly at him again. “...If you’re sure?”
He seemed oddly wrought with tension, in his stance and his expression. She had knocked his cane. Did he need to sit, or was it just the fact of her presence all to blame? Or – was she looking too much at him, and inventing a hurt that wasn’t there?
Callista bit her lip. (And then realised that she had, and so hurriedly un-bit her lip, trying to find a lightness and composure she didn’t feel.) “Are you – I mean, have you been well?”
