Alfred was still regretting having let the question slip past his lips without any further thought, but her laughter put him somewhat more at ease. Her answer didn't surprise him — because, really, it was a stupid question. Of course she didn't have tattoos. It wasn't something that English women did, and it wasn't a question he should have ever thought to ask an English woman, world traveler or not. She was being polite by offering an excuse, he thought; she had probably never very seriously considered it, and was just trying to pretend, for his sake, that his question hadn't been quite as ridiculous as it was.

He was still blushing as he answered her question, but only of residual feeling, not because he was embarrassed about the presence of his own tattoos. As a matter of fact, his hand absently moved towards the top button of his shirt as he nodded, to slip a button or two loose so that he could show her. He realized before he actually got a button off what he was doing, though, and what an absolutely terrible idea it was. He couldn't just strip his shirt off (or even open the front of it up) on this patio, which was more or less just a public street in London, to show her his tattoos. Merlin, what was he thinking? It was as though talking about his time in South America, even as briefly as they had, had sent the English portion of his brain off on a little vacation, and he had forgotten all sense of propriety.

Well, at least he'd caught himself that time. "Yeah, I do," he said, moving his hand to awkwardly drum the side of his pint glass instead. "I think they're more or less common knowledge by now. Witch Weekly ran a whole piece on 'em once."