He can hear the bitterness in her voice, but in fairness, he can understand it, too. Who would not be bitter, to feel so restricted in their purpose? Has he not, in his heart, been just as bitter towards his own father, who never failed to make his preference known? At least what was expected of him, what he was for, was not so far different from his brother.

Though he is not sure that made it better. Worse, in some ways, for there was always a measure for all that he was not; there was always a better man, who he could not exceed, and whom he did not wish to exceed, for Boromir's victories were as dear to him as any of his own. Still, though, he can sympathise with that sense of being the second, the set-dressing - and the station, and the money, and the expectations. They have more in common, perhaps, than he had thought.

"There are worse things," he says at last, with a sympathetic sort of half-smile, "but there are many better. I am sorry that you must be so assailed." He settles his coffee down, resting his elbows on the table. "...Who is he? Your father?" He is realising, belatedly, that he still does not know her full name.