He blinks in something akin to awe, standing politely from his chair before closing both his hands around the proffered one as if taking hold of something precious and fragile, and bends in a bow to kiss the back, warm without being obsequious or unbecoming. He was expert enough in formal manners and graces, enough to blend in far above his station; when he happened to be dressed the part, it was nearly impossible to discern his true circumstances, dwelling in a drafty garret on the meager allowance brought in by selling sensationalist bits of writing on commission. There were good and bad weeks - writing as an income was never stable - but he was careful, and frugal, and self-possessed, seldom giving in to whim or indulgence, even when he could manage it, unused to softness or kindness from himself, when what he was used to was ruthless and unyielding discipline.

But discipline was something that seemed utterly antithetical to this current moment.

"I'm afraid the rest of your adoring public is far less so," he replies, keeping his fingers curled around the hand resting in his palm. "But I hope not to disappoint." He tilts his head with a confidence he has never felt, but has learned to pretend to, "Is there somewhere private where I can become better acquainted with you?"