He still hadn't been entirely sure when he went to fetch the drink whether she would close herself off when he returned it not. The shift to the more comfortable seating (and the shift in her attention away from her work and fully towards the conversation) certainly felt more like an invitation. This scene suited him, for his initial goal of finding a way to kill a lot of time without anyone offering to sell him intoxicants. If he looked as though he was already having fun, he was less likely to be approached unless the oncomer also knew the person he was with, and he didn't think she ran in those sorts of circles. This was as close as he could come at a party like this to a safe haven.

"At a time, Miss Crawley?" he returned in an indulgent tone, drawing the word out for more emphasis. "My bed isn't big enough for four." To date he had never engaged in any kind of sober group sex (which he supposed to be qualitatively different enough from the hazy way bodies sometimes jumbled together at the end of a high that it merited categorical distinction), nor did he take anyone back to his actual bed, but facts were besides the point. He was giving the impression of having fun, and that was the main thing.

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