He's midway through mouthful of wine, and he finishes it in an offended rush so he can say, with faux stern stuffiness, "We have all made choices that we regret."

He imagines they all do, at least. Perhaps she has never taken a wrong turn or a life that could have been spared, or chosen a hideous false name and then had to live with it longer than expected, and perhaps her inscrutable smiles hide nothing in particular. Maybe this time around he'll have the honor of finding out, one way or the other.

And if she has ever had a terrible name, then she's in trouble.

In the meantime: "What are you doing here? Where have you been? You do not have to tell me everything—" Wouldn't, he's sure, regardless. "—but you have to tell me something interesting, or I will start reading from the manuals."