Fetching was a strange choice of word, since he looked just the same as he always did (except perhaps slightly greener around the gills) — or maybe it wasn't, and it only seemed odd in his ears because she'd paused right before it? It had been slight, but noticeable. He wondered if he ought to comment on it, but then she started fluttering her eyelashes and it made some amount of sense. She must have gotten something in her eye. She was evidentially trying to take care of it discreetly, with just those fluttering eyelashes and her fan, so he decided not to comment on it or ask if she was alright. Not that she gave him time to ask, anyway — she had quickly moved on to a much less comfortable topic. (How had she managed to find a less comfortable topic for Ford than responding to unwarranted compliments?)

The gentleman of the house; what a laughable phrase that was. He was the gentleman of a house, he supposed — one that was a bit too small for their family and rented, though no one ought to have known that except their landlord. And as for the responsibility — he really ought not to think too much on it before he'd had anything to eat that night, or he might risk worrying himself sick and losing one of these cocktails in the lavatory. But the responsibility would have been significantly more manageable if they had any money to speak of, and he was trying to present the facade that they did — so he could not look too put out by it all.

"If responsibility suited anyone, they'd call it leisure," he joked, with a smile that looked genuine but didn't fully reach his eyes. "In all seriousness, it's quite a change. I suppose I'll feel more at ease once my sisters are all established in society."