nearamir | for reignfall

Faramir has established himself pretty thoroughly, without entirely meaning to, as a regular here. It's the kind of place, after all, where a man like him can easily spend hours, either browsing the second-hand bookshelves or just sipping at a hot drink and watching the world go by. It's good, he's decided, to have places like that. Peaceful places, where people know you, and nobody asks anything of you besides good manners and a decent tip - both of which he is more than happy to provide.

Over the past few months, he's got into the habit of spending his Saturday afternoons at the coffee shop, settled into the nook by the window with a latte and a notebook, where he can either read whatever catches his eye, or scribble down poetry of his own. His therapist encourages this, but that isn't why he does it; he does it because he always has, because it puts his mind at ease, and because when his time is his own, he may as well indulge in softer interests.

And because nobody remains to push him towards manlier occupations. There's that, too. He has nothing to prove, because with his father gone, he has nobody to prove it to; and sometimes he doubts whether that's a good enough reason, but it isn't as though he can go back to the Army. The shrapnel lodged under his rib has seen to that. So he's free to grow out his hair, which is now well past his shoulders and a far cry from the regulation cut he had a couple of years ago; he's free to shift his focus from strategy to literature; and he's free to sit in coffee shops with a notebook of poetry and a fairtrade latte, if that's what he wants to do.

He has, however, been away for a couple of weeks. There's something rather gratifying in finding that his absence has been noticed - the barista exclaims when he comes in, says they were starting to worry; and his table is, thankfully, free. He settles back into his usual place, smiling a little, and reaches into his tote for his notebook and pen. It's nice to belong somewhere, after all.

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From:

nearamir

There's something oddly charming about it, he finds; awkward, perhaps, but charming nonetheless. He is a fairly private man, for the most part, if a friendly one, and it isn't all that often that people actually ask these kinds of questions.

"For myself." He has never even thought about publication, truthfully. His brother used to suggest it, when he was alive; but since Boromir's death, that's something he's pushed to the back of his mind all over again. "I can't imagine that what I have to offer is exciting enough to push anyone else off the shelves. Besides, it's..." Personal. That's what it boils down to, in the end. Some of what is in that notebook is, by his own assessment, neutral to the point of trite: musings on weather and landscapes and abstract thoughts. Most of it is rather more raw.

He clears his throat, and offers her a smile. "It isn't particularly polished, let's say."

From:

reignfall

Cersei has been called arrogant before, though she disagrees with the assessment. She is not arrogant; she is skilled, more beautiful than any other woman alive, and more clever than anyone, including even her most decorated professor. These are simply truths, and she reckons it does her good to be aware of them. Perhaps that is what makes his understatements so great: no one would read him, his work is unpolished, he pays no mind to the glories he might reach if he as much as dared.

It is a rather startling thing to witness, seeing how pride runs from the roots to the leaves of her family shrub.

Still – his smile is catching, and she answers it in kind. "Well, I cannot judge it for myself –" Seeing how his notebook is safely guarded, and none of his careful words made him seem keen on yielding his treasures, "but I wonder if you might not deserve more praise than you are willing to grant yourself."

If he thinks he can dodge the subject, he is, unfortunately, mistaken. His absence has made her aware that she might never receive answers to her questions, and now that he has returned, she seems unwilling to hold them back. "What got you started?"

From:

nearamir

He regards her for a moment, his grey eyes thoughtful and intent. There is nothing demanding in that look, but only a deep consideration - whether of her or of the question, who can say? Both seem to him, in the moment, equally strange, and equally hard to entirely respond to.

"I'm not sure I can say," he admits, at length. "As long as I can remember, I have written. As long as I could read, and even before, I have taken joy in poetry. I cannot imagine that there was ever a time that I did start, or a world in which I do not write, at least in my own head." There is a hint of sheepishness in his smile, this time. "You should not ask such questions of a poet. You may get a poetic lack of answer."

That he is a poet, he has never doubted. Whether he is a good one may, perhaps, be a matter for debate: but, as he has said, he has written poetry for as long as he could write, and read it for as long as he had the ability, and if that does not make him in some way a poet, then what could? Besides, it is one thing that has never been denied of him, even if it has been spoken more often as insult than praise by some. A poet: a man with his head in the clouds, a man who looks for beauty in a world where there may be none and who seeks to make of himself something that no man could be, a man whose head is too full of words to leave room for bitter, cynical truth. He has often thought, even when it was spat at him in that way, that there were worse things to be.

He sips his coffee, and looks down at the notebook on the tabletop, a small frown creasing his brow. "I have never understood," he says, quietly, "how people can bear to live in a world without poetry. It must be such a bleak place."

From:

reignfall

As long as he remembers, and yet he thinks his work unpolished and best hidden in his private notebook, where none may ever partake in it. His sheepish smile is contagious, however, and her own lips quirk upward when he catches himself before the monologue can get a hold of him properly. The waitress nearly startles her when she comes to take her order, and it is clear that Cersei gave the question no thought at all from the carelessness with which she points at a random drink from the coffee menu.

She looks ready to pose another question, or offer a gently teasing remark, even. Yet he goes on, and the time for a playful teasing is past them as quickly as it had come, and he cannot know his words would strike home – but they do. It is a waste in her father's eyes, any interest in a thing that could be fiction, and while she frequently rejoiced when this struck Tyrion, it did affect any natural inclination she might have had toward it. And that was ever present, from when she listened intently to the songs Rhaegar Targaryen wrote (and wept at the most touching parts when she was but a girl) to the present, where all must serve a purpose, and purpose is measured in numbers.

Oh, Tywin Lannister values reading, and his older, dyslexic son is a personal curse to him by his own estimation, but there is a difference between hard science and expressive arts, isn't there? "We had fireplaces at home. They brightened it up nice enough." An attempt at a joke.

From:

nearamir

He recognises the joke, and smiles at it; but it is a smile clearly born of politeness more than anything else, and it is a fleeting thing. It is a relief, then, that the waitress is there; that he can look up, and ask her for another latte, please (although his current one is still half-full). It is mostly to make a break in the conversation, to make less of the awkward lack of laughter.

"I did not mean it as an insult," he says, after a moment, looking back at Cersei. His grey eyes are sincere, steady and cool in their regard. "Only that..." Again, that small crease between his brows, that slight look of distance. "Have you read any of Robert Graves' work? Or Sassoon's? They do not brighten very much; on the contrary, they are bleaker than most prose. But poetry gives shape to darkness, and makes it something that can be shared and lightened, and when I think of living without that, I start to understand why my father..."

He breaks off sharply, and looks away, clearing his throat. "It is not a world I would like to live in."

From:

reignfall

"My mother liked to read the most. It was always something else. Poetry one night, something from a storybook the next." Only now does she note that his cup is still half-full, even though he has already ordered another. Somehow, that makes the subject less taxing: however strange the circumstances, he doesn't seem to be looking for a quick escape. "It makes it feel like something sacred now, no matter the subject. Even the dark things."

Perhaps especially those, because she cannot imagine her mother as a shining ray of golden sunlight, if she managed to capture her father's heart.

She smiles, not apologetic. "Maybe that is what got me so curious, when I saw you write."

From:

nearamir

It is strange, that smile. There is something in it that sparks a warmth in him, almost a relief. "It is," he allows, with a little smile of his own, "as good a reason as any. I was trying not to ask."

Because it is strange, is it not, to be so fascinated by a man sitting alone in a coffee shop? It is strange to miss him when he is gone for a brief time, and strange to strike up such conversation with him, when he is not even entirely sure that he has ever given her his name. It is not unpleasant, not in the slightest, but it is strange; and this is the closest she has ever come to giving an explanation.

An explanation, he cannot help but notice, which is remarkably close to his own experience. He, too, remembers his mother reading night and day; it is one of the few things he does remember of her with any great clarity. He, too, finds in that a sacred wonder. Perhaps that is why, after a moment, he clears his throat and pushes the moleskine notebook across the table towards her. It is not something he makes a habit of, to share his poetry so freely with a stranger; but under the circumstances, it begins to feel churlish not to.

"If you would care to sate your curiosity." His smile lingers longer, this time; it is soft, if not entirely happy. "Only do not be disappointed, and remember: I did tell you it is unpolished."

From:

reignfall

She had asked his first name, and given her own – though she never asked for his surname, nor did he strike her as the sort of man who would return home and use an online search engine of his choice to find hers out. The man writes his poetry into a notebook, for crying out loud, he is more likely than not the only person she sees on a regular basis who might be honestly surprised at the numbers on her instagram account.

No sooner has she thought the word 'notebook' and it is pushed toward her, a small smile still somewhere on his features, and she touches the cover as though to ask if he is certain. Not that she can voice the question, because she does not wish to be told no now. In some way, she feels as if she needs to know, as if it is vital to catch a glimpse of his mind when she has spent so long on watching, on tidbits of conversation. His smile is not enough to drive that shroud of darkness from him, but her own is all the light in the room. "It would not be real if it were overly polished."

The polishing sounds too much like censoring, cutting away at truths. She is gentle with his prized possession, opens the notebook carefully for a first, ravenous reading. She will only look up again – blinking, as if resurfacing – when the waitress comes with their orders.

From:

nearamir

It is... uncomfortable, to sit there in silence and try not to wonder what she is thinking. Her smile is dazzling, but it is not enough to drive back thirty years of doubt, not enough - at least, not for more than a moment - to drown out the memory of his father's voice. Faramir clears his throat, rather awkwardly, and picks up his coffee with both hands, wrapping long fingers around the warm cup. Now he is the one fighting the urge to lean in and read over her shoulder, to see what she is looking at and what she thinks. Instead, because it seems slightly easier, he turns away from her, looking out of the window at the street outside; his eyes do still keep trying to wander over to her, though, to gauge her reaction.

It is not only poetry, it transpires, with which he has filled the pages of his notebook. There are small sketches, too, landscapes and small thumbnail portraits, drawn in black ink in the same sure, neat hand whose flowing script is woven between them. Her own face is among them - a fact which, if he had remembered it, might have made him altogether less likely to relinquish the book - but most of the faces sketched there are men; his father, his brother, his comrades-in-arms. Faces fixed to the page for fear of being forgotten. The landscapes vary: desert, forest, mountains.

But there is still no page that is without words. There are no dates on his work, nothing to indicate when or where the poems were written. Some are clearly unfinished: couplets and snippets, fragments of a whole that will never be pieced together. Others are more fully-realised, and some of these are several pages long: a musing on the silence that falls after gunfire; a long description of a storm in woodlands; a winding verse that follows the course of a river from source to sea. All have the ring of sincerity, and all, even the ones that muse on light and hope, carry with them a deeper melancholy.

Faramir jumps, uncharacteristically startled for the second time that afternoon, as the waitress places the fresh coffee down in front of him; his smile is brief and distracted as he murmurs a polite thank-you and allows himself, at last, to glance at Cersei again. He does not want to ask what she thinks; nor, he finds, can he bear not to know. After a moment, he clears his throat again.

"Well?"

From:

reignfall

Hard to say what she expected. Pages of neat, unedited script, perhaps, or nothing but thoughtless, clumsy stanzas following some terrible rhyming scheme, something to kill her curiosity and bury it in disappointment's scorched earth. Instead, she holds in her hands a glimpse into his world, and she finds herself reading with a ravenous hunger, the awareness of how little time she has resting, excruciating, in every beat of her heart. Now and again, she sinks into a finished poem, and just as often, she turns a page, tongue bit between her teeth, hoping for another line, a follow-up, only to find that it is not yet finished, and that she will never know the next verse.

The art gives her more pause – men she has not seen, distant friends, perhaps, until she notes the occasional hint at a uniform, puzzling together, then, that he must have had another life indeed. On her own image, she pauses, enthralled as ever by her beauty, and excited, in a way, at knowing he must have stopped to capture it.

She does not notice the waitress' approach nor departure, and only the clearing of his throat forces her to resurface, a finger on a line as though she fears losing it. It cannot have been so long since she began; it was not long enough. The wonder on her face is quite real, until she realises it and means to pull herself together again, the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks at having been so intimately watched. She had not noticed his looking away any more than she'd noticed the appearance of her drink. "I'm –"

Now it is for her to clear her throat, to gather herself together. "Thank you. I liked the portrait." It feels hollow, though, to only speak of that one thing, when she had sunken far more deeply into all of the rest. Such honesty, however, seems to trouble her, so it takes another moment before she finds something resembling the words for it. It had been a more intimate experience than she has had in quite some time. "I would read it again and again, if it were something I could place on my shelf. You've made me feel –" For a moment, it looks as though she wishes to add something there, but then she stops. He has made her feel quite a few things, in fact, more than she permits herself during the average week.

From:

nearamir

You've made me feel is, in a strange way, enough. After all, what is poetry for, if not to make one feel? And she does not seem insulted - despite the sudden surge of anxiety he feels when he realises which portrait she means - and she does not seem to be stumbling to hide her distaste; in other words, better than he might have feared, and more than enough to be complimentary. He relaxes a little, his shoulders visibly losing some of their tension, and smiles.

"I am flattered," he says warmly, honestly. What else is there to say but that? It is a strange feeling; he has never shown his work so freely to anyone since Boromir died. Beregond has had sight of it a few times, and Faramir is in writing groups and classes who have, of course, seen some of his work - but to let it entirely out of his hands has become a foreign thing, and it is, above all, a huge relief to see it well-received, without disappointment. He wonders, too, at the blush that has appeared rose-pink on her cheeks. He cannot help but note how it warms her whole expression, and makes her prettier still. "And relieved. I would hate to feel I had insulted you by mistake." With the portrait, he means, of course; sketching is something he is far less comfortable with than words, and it has none of the anonymous abstraction of poetry.

From:

reignfall

He meant it in truth, she realises, this fear of a harsh judgement and the thought that his work might not be as worthwhile as that of older masters. He sits less strained, then, but it is the smile that captures her, in a way that she does not usually feel drawn to near-strangers. It reminds her also that she still holds onto his notebook, and that she should, at least, place it back upon the table for him to take, even though she would rather finish her reading. It would be a risk to take too much now; it might rob her of a future chance at another glimpse.

"I came across three already that I cannot wait for you to finish one day." And that just from her hasty, starved read. "Though I do wish you would consider some form of publishing." If only so she could have his words for herself, on her shelf, to be read when she felt like it, until she knew every last one.

Almost sheepish, she takes a sip of her coffee – a sweet concoction with a hint of caffeine, really. "I never noticed your sketching. Sitting with you is comfortable, I don't feel particularly concerned in your presence. It must have made it easy to miss." She does not sound offended in the slightest, more as though she is musing out loud.

From:

nearamir

He does not, to his own surprise, hasten to take the book back. It no longer feels important to do so: the seal broken, the secrecy dispelled. It is not as though he has it in him, in this jumbled and admittedly awkward moment, to calmly sink back into writing; nor does he entirely wish to, when this strange conversation has taken so interesting and flattering a turn. This is not at all what he expected from this day, and yet it is a pleasant surprise, enough so that it has a certain unreality to the whole thing.

Comfortable. It is, in a humble way, the highest praise that she might have given. To be safe, to be comfortable, to be a presence which does not inspire fear unless intended... that is small praise, perhaps, but it seems to him the most important thing a man could aspire to, at least in peacetime. His smile strengthens a little, and he sips his own coffee, settling back in his seat.

"It is a bad habit, I'm afraid." The sketching. It feels intrusive, at times, if he thinks about it too long. "I cannot promise anything as far as publishing goes - but I can promise that I will consider it, at least. And try to show you, if I finish anything already begun." It seems the least he can offer, really, for how kind she is being.

From:

reignfall

"Does this mean I will regularly see you here again?" She means to snuff out the hopefulness in her voice - it feels girlish, and weak for that same reason, and why should she, of all people, be so desperate for casual company? If she posted a request in one of her stories on social media, she would receive messages for days – and perhaps that is the appeal, in this moment. He has, presumably, not jerked off to her last three bikini pictures.

She stirs around in her mug, her free hand tracing the simple, patternless cover of his notebook. Perhaps she should have used a silent moment to scribble her number on one of the pages, but that is cowardly, and she is a lioness. A lioness, which means she has her pride, and no reason to dwell on that odd sense of loneliness she had felt without her silent, steadfast study-companion.

From:

nearamir

"I see no reason you should not." There is, perhaps, a small note of amusement in his voice - but there is genuine warmth, too, and if he means to mock her earnestness, then he has little chance of it being effective, for his own earnestness shines through too much. He smiles, and there is a hint of colour in his cheeks that was not there before. "I have no other travel on the horizon, and I do not mean to change my habits overmuch. If you would like to see me here again, then you may always seek me out."

He wraps both hands, again, around his drink, resting his lips against the rim of the cup. For a moment, he considers her, trying not to wonder whether he may have overstepped. This is, it must be said, outside his realm of expertise.

From:

reignfall

"I will be sure to do so." It is not the impulse itself which confuses her. He is handsome, almost unfairly so, his presence feels comfortable to her, and now, after this glimpse into his inner world, she must also suffer from the knowledge that she finds his mind as appealing as his body. So, this wish to spend time with him makes sense – she would, in fact, quite like to spend a number of hours in his bed, if at all possible.

What bothers her is that the impulse persists, even after she cannot find a proper reason for it. He will not elevate her brand, he is neither useful to her father's business, nor does he stand in direct competition with it. He is no equally aspiring classmate, either – in short, she cannot think of a thing she could gain her.

Except, of course, his company, which seems to be a goal onto itself. That slight blush to his cheeks is appealing as well – dear god, what is in this coffee? Either way, she ignores her own cup and waits until his at least has left his lips. "In fact, I was wondering if you would like to go out for dinner with me sometime."

From:

nearamir

He starts at that, sharply enough that a little of his coffee spills over the edge of the cup onto the slender brown hands that clasp it - and he may be glad to have ordered a latte, in this case, for at least it only scalds a little. Flushing, he sets his cup down and reaches for a napkin.

He should, he realises, have seen that coming. He should have seen it coming as soon as she sat down with him. He can almost hear his brother's good-natured laughter from beyond the grave - a thought tinged with both fondness and sharp, bitter grief. Boromir would have known at once; would have teased him ceaselessly for not realising her intentions; and he feels a fresh sorrow at the knowledge of that, but he will not dwell on it. He has a moment to gather himself, at least, under the guise of wiping up the spilled coffee. When he looks up, his cheeks are still a touch darker than they should be, but he smiles, nonetheless.

She is, it strikes him, quite a lot younger than him, and he knows her hardly at all. There is a part of him, then, which is doubtful; which feels that it would not be fair or proper to accept. But if it is only one date...

"I would." He clears his throat, and smiles a little more certainly. "Of course. It would be good to get to know you better."

From:

reignfall

She offers him a napkin, and watches him clean his hands, the table, the cup that is now coffee-stained at its side. More keenly does she watch the rising flush in his cheeks, though she wonders at it, too – he is so handsome it almost pains her, he is well-spoken and clever, he is a poet and he has a gentle, kind air about him. Surely to be asked on dates is a thing that must be second nature to him, as average a part of his day as brushing his hair or cleaning his teeth.

Still, that boyish blush is strangely nice to see, and gods, she must be in some deeper trouble here. Perhaps this is the right course of action, then: to ask him out, and to see if he might join her for a cup of coffee at her place after, and then they might unceremoniously fuck on her kitchen counter, and she will have it out of her system by the next morning.

The next week, tops.

Yeah, because getting him out of her system has worked really well so far.

There's a good hint at how far gone she is when her own smile turns more honest in answer to his. "There is a nice place down by the river. It's not far from here at all, less than fifteen minutes by foot." So, assuming he doesn't live terribly far from the café... "Could I trouble you for your number?"

From:

nearamir

She is very beautiful, when she smiles that way. She is beautiful in any case, of course, but there is something in that smile, in the way it softens the jade-green of her eyes, that makes her look less like a stranger in a café, and more like his childhood imaginings of storybook maidens and goddesses. Which is, of course, unreasonable; and yet, what harm in indulging a moment's over-poetic imaginings?

She is not, in fact, far wrong in her assessment. He is not asked on dates every day, but nor is it entirely novel: many women do keep their distance, intimidated (not that he is aware of this) by the melancholy and distant air that hangs about him at times, but many others have not. Some women, some men. He has answered very few of either with more than a polite, gentle, but firm reassurance that he is not in a place for dating. A few times, in the year or two since his discharge from the service, he has accepted a date, and it has gone nowhere, and that has been all right, too.

But none of them had read his poetry, or seen him make sketches of them; and none of them had been quite as blunt in the question itself, after so long of him missing the cues.

He clears his throat again, and nods, setting the sodden napkin aside on the saucer and reaching for his pen. For a moment, he casts around for something to write on, then tears a small strip from the edge of a notebook page, conscientiously folding it first so that the tear is neat and straight. He scribbles down his number and name - Faramir Stewart, and then, as an afterthought (from Books'n'Beans) - and then holds it out. "In case you don't have your phone on you."

From:

reignfall

Cersei always has her phone on her – it would be potentially harmful to her social media presence if she did not, even though most of her posts are prepared in advance and queued as she requires them. Better safe than sorry, though, and there is no harm in being a touch candid here and there, even if a solid strategy bests casual postings. But paper is something she has come to associate with him for the most obvious reason, and it is... oddly pleasant, to hold that tangible slip of it with his number on it.

Even if there is a twinkle in her eye that speaks of barely suppressed laughter when she reads the note by his name. She smoothes her fingers against the paper, and then she cannot seem to contain that moment's teasing. "Do you reckon I would not know who you are, had you not specified where we met?"

He is, after all, terminally difficult to forget – or so she has found. She does pull out her phone, and she does type in his number, saving it at once in case the piece of paper is lost, and the text she sends him so he, too, can have her number. simply says Cersei Lannister, because she cannot presume he would not know.

The piece of paper, however, is carefully folded and slipped into her phone case. Just... for safekeeping.

From:

nearamir

Judging by the lack of any ringtone, he either does not have his phone on him, or he has it on silent. Still, he watches her with a little half-smile, and he is confident that when he returns home to where his own phone is charging in the living room, he will see what she has to say for herself then.

"I was always taught that it was best not to assume." It could almost be a joke - there is a hint of dry humour in his tone, although it is so subdued that it might equally be an illusion. "Although I admit, it isn't exactly a common name." An old family one, rather, a throwback to centuries past. For a man so opposed to history and poetry, Denethor Stewart nonetheless cleaved close to tradition.

He tucks his pen back into the spine of the notebook, reaching for his coffee again. "I'll look forwards to hearing from you, then."

From:

reignfall

Her eyebrow darts up, as though he has all but said that he considers her the sort to date with abandon, unable to keep track of the numbers she receives or the names she hears. It does confirm also that his name is no coincidence, that she is speaking to one of the the Stewarts, and there is something almost amusing about the fact that the man she has felt some sort of draw toward would be a lovely match indeed, by her father's standards, if there were not plans with the Baratheons in place.

"I'll look forward to our dinner. It has been a string of business obligations and classwork for me lately, it will be nice to go out and do something just for the pleasure of it." And that she uses the word pleasure is no coincidence. She brings her own cup to her mouth, and takes a warming sip of her coffee –

And if the way she licks that touch of cream from her lips may be a tad suggestive, she is ready to blame his imagination there. "Do you make the time often?"

From:

nearamir

Judging by the slight darkening of that lingering colour on his cheeks, it is not entirely lost on him. He can be blind to some things, certainly; but even so, he is not entirely oblivious. Certainly not now that he has finally cottoned on to her interest. He clears his throat, and looks down at his own coffee, biting the inside of his cheek.

Question. She asked him a question. Easier, then, to focus on that, and not on his embarrassment.

"I find I have very little but time, since I moved here." Since my father's passing, he almost says, but that feels inappropriate to the moment. "But if you mean, do I often go out for meals with beautiful young women from coffee shops? No. I do not." There is, perhaps, a hint of that same dry humour in his smile, although if so, it is certainly aimed at himself rather than anyone else. "I live a very boring life, I'm afraid."

From:

reignfall

There it is again, that self-depreciation which makes it so difficult to casually enjoy the darkening of his cheeks. It even overshadows the compliment he pays her, for how could he be truly indulging in her light-like beauty if he remains compelled to direct a dry sort of jest at himself in the moment?

"That might lie in the eye of the beholder." She looks at the notebook, now safely back with him, and takes another sip of her coffee as she ponders a response that does not seem too attached, or too eager to attach him to her, at any rate. "I know quite a few men," and she will not name Robert Baratheon, but this is just about the only context she can ever picture herself thinking of him, "who consider themselves so deeply interesting, while never making it an inch beneath the surface."

From:

nearamir

That brings a quirk of a smile to his face, a slightly rueful look. "I, too," he confides, "have known such men." In abundance, it must be said. He has disliked them, for the most part, immensely: the most valuable things to Faramir are honesty and nobility, and such men have neither.

It does occur to him that the woman in front of him also seems to consider herself quite interesting. On the other hand, he is not convinced in the slightest that she is wrong.

He follows her eyes down to the notebook, and his smile steadies a little. "Then I will let you be the judge of it," he decides - after all, what else is there to do, under the circumstances? "I meant only that I am not a very sociable kind of man. My brother used to tell me that I was too much buried in the lives and words of others to open my eyes to what my own life was doing. At times, I suspect he was right."