That's nice, isn't it? That bothers him too. It shows in his face—some twitch of the lip around his cigarette or a flicker of the eye near the curve of his hand. Maybe it's disgust. Apparently he wouldn't be the first person to feel that way.

(Nevermind that it's shades of the role he'd imagined himself playing. Here comes that dreadful young man preying on an old woman's sentimentality, he'd pretended. The possibility that the impression he'd been giving everyone in the hall, including the woman who'd played house here in these rooms, might have been something entirely more dreary—)

The long drag he pulls from the cigarette rather than immediately answer has a grudging air to it.

"It's seven hours bent over datasets in the company of an Anglican and a man who's made more progress with the secretary than he has his work. How do you think it is?"

It's true that a clever and unruly dog being walked by a new hand may test the leash a bit. To a point.

"The Americans have re-opened their communications with us though. Apparently we're trustworthy again." His mood isn't quite dark enough yet for the humor to be entirely lost on him. "So if you're here to retire me, you may want to stave off the impulse for a few days until whatever they're sending comes trickling down to my desk."