"Heading back in, actually," Barrow muses, quirking his eyebrows at the strangeness of all this, though he doesn't shrug himself free of the stranger's grip and allows himself to be ushered mildly along. He outweighs most people, and tends not to live in too much fear of physical assault.

"I'm afraid I don't, ah... well, you're not really my type," he adds, the 'dear's and 'sweetheart's finally nestling into his mind, "but don't take it personally, mate, you're good-looking and all that."