He is not blind to the heat that lies behind that smile, although he would not swear to its intent: regardless, it does stir in him an answering warmth, one that makes him wonder whether this might not lead, in time, to more than goodnight kisses and the brush of knees beneath the table (which is, truthfully, hard to avoid at times, with legs as long as his). There is, in her look, a certain promise of future pleasures, of dates in some more intimate venue, and kisses that come with more than their share of passion. He would be lying if he claimed that the thought was an unpleasant one.

It is not, then, entirely a surprise when she invites him to join her after dinner; it is not a surprise, but it is a cause for hesitation. He would not want, after all, to overstep; he does not want to let her eagerness get the better of her common sense. There is certainly a part of him that whispers that going home with her on the first date might be taken amiss, that she might mistake him for someone who wants nothing more than a feverish fumble and a hasty exit. He is not such a man, and never has been: the thought unsettles him.

And yet, he did offer to show her how to press his flowers, and flimsy though it might be, it is excuse enough to allow for what he cannot deny is a pleasant suggestion. Perhaps he is a little curious, too, to know her better: to see where she lives, and who she is when she is not around him. He sips his wine, and smiles across the table at her, nodding.

"I would be honoured."