The man seemed to take his fun fact as a modicum of reassurance, as though having a history was an instant boost for the confidence. (Such a mindset rather enslaved one to tradition, Ewart had always thought, but nevermind.) The young gentleman was doing his best to relax, it looked like, as the hat had another go. This time, it did manage to carry a tune - something a little jaunty, but tense - Ewart didn’t catch all the hat’s mumbling words, but it sounded perhaps like a teeth-grinding version of Hampstead Is The Place To Ruralise, that old ditty about a stressful trip to the countryside. A little too militant in its delivery, Ewart decided, quietly deducing a thing or two about the person before him from it.
He hummed along for a little while, and then regarded the gentleman again. “Well, you certainly have a mighty strict metronome marching on in your mind, don’t you, my boy?” He uttered with a laugh, wondering if the man was perhaps always conscious of being on time. Or never quite relaxed. “Mood music, indeed,” he mused, with a satisfied sort of smile. It was proving a fun little game, at least.
He hummed along for a little while, and then regarded the gentleman again. “Well, you certainly have a mighty strict metronome marching on in your mind, don’t you, my boy?” He uttered with a laugh, wondering if the man was perhaps always conscious of being on time. Or never quite relaxed. “Mood music, indeed,” he mused, with a satisfied sort of smile. It was proving a fun little game, at least.
