He halts when the conversation does, taken aback, still a little uncomfortable under Alecto's regard. He's dressed neatly and had clearly taken some care with it, but each article is well-worn, carefully mended, painstakingly maintained. Whatever skill he had in art has clearly not borne out in any kind of commercial or financial success. He has his folio clasped in front of him, standing at an awkward attention as he tries to figure out where he is meant to sit.

"Good evening," he greets, with a slight dip of his head, before finally spotting the other place laid out at the table, opposite his host. Despite his obvious nerves, his movements are gracefully economical, and he settles down in his chair easily, looking down at the modest spread in front of them with curiosity, delight, and not a little relief, as though he'd worried about being presented with something unfamiliar.