Occasionally when Valentine de Foncé falls into this very particular, and indeed now entirely familiar, patter, Wysteria finds herself in the irritating position of growing more and more agitated while she chafes at his sermonizing. More than once she has sat at such an aforementioned little table and been struck with an unquenchable thirst for whatever may be had from the nearest bottle(s) in an effort to starve off a kind of sullen dismissiveness which generally overcomes her in place of boredom.

But less occasionally, indeed so often that it might annoyingly even be called regular, she finds herself rather pleased by that easily noted cadence. It is often the precursor to an excellent discussion—or argument, if one is being very selective about their semantics. And sometimes, though she usually only feels it in the moment, she almost enjoys how much he loves to prattle on. As an expert prattler in her own right, she is somewhat fond of the impulse.

Most irritatingly, this particular 'conversation' slides securely into the latter category. The longer Val talks, the more her exasperation fades in favor of the warmer shape behind her ribs. As far of subjects for recitation go, he could pick far worse ones.

—its hideous state, he says, and so much has her opinion of the ugly statue been softened by then that Wysteria actually laughs. It's a bright, cheerful sound and not at all ladylike.

"Oh good. I was mortified that you might actually be under the impression that it was attractive."