"I'm observing the table dynamics."
"You're staring at me."
"You're part of the table dynamics."
"I'm eating soup."
"Dynamically."
She turned to face him fully. "Mr. Fletcher, are you flirting with me?"
"Absolutely not. I don't flirt."
"What do you do?"
"I make observations."
"Romantic observations?"
"Scientifically neutral observations."
"About my soup-eating."
"About your dynamic soup-eating."
"That might be the strangest compliment I've ever received."
"It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation."
"A complimentary observation?"
"A neutral observation that you're choosing to interpret favorably."
"So you're saying I eat soup well?"
"I'm saying nothing about your soup consumption."
"You literally just..."
"Would anyone like pudding?" Mrs. Morrison interrupted loudly, clearly having been eavesdropping. "We have Christmas pudding!"
"It's not Christmas yet," the land steward pointed out.
"It's Christmas season. That counts."
"By that logic, we could have Christmas pudding from November through January."
"What a wonderful idea!"
The pudding was produced with great ceremony, flamed dramatically, nearly setting Mr. Ironwell's borrowed coat on fire, and served with brandy butter that was more brandy than butter.
"This is excellent, Mrs. Morrison," Alaric said, surprising himself by meaning it.
"Marianne made it, actually."
He looked at Marianne, who was suddenly very interested in her plate. "I thought you made bread."
"I make many things."
