There's no apparent need to respond to her pleasantries, especially not her observations as to her own ignorance ('tea will suffice, thank you, oh you shouldn't have, this is far too much'), but he can't help but bare teeth in a bowstring grin.

"Don't be coy. You would not still be here if you weren't seeking attention. You want me to invite you, or you would have spared yourself these trifling courtesies."

There's that calculating, measuring glance from top to tippy-toes again. "And your dress." His eyes fixate on Metody's eyes, for they are pretty and as see-through as glass. His tongue clicks briefly against the back of his front teeth.

"Did you think it would make me more amenable to your good cause? Make me more inclined to accept your gifts?"

His hand returns slowly to the door. It stands out like the chalk hand print from M against the flaking dark paint.