Kathryn is, in Lancelot's opinion, far more suited to this environment than he is -- and on top of that, probably cold. Either that or used to cooler temperatures. The top of her dress looks like it might be at least partially transparent in some way (he's trying not to let his eyes linger too long) and despite the heating and the amount of candles and so on he can't help but hope she bought a coat. At least he has the benefit of black tie for men involving sleeves, which he's wearing as smartly and appropriately as one can do while trying not to stand out.

English weather in October is not, in truth, particularly something that supports thin white dresses. One taxi driving through a big puddle and she'll be done.

That aside, however, Lancelot finds himself oddly curious about her. He doesn't recall seeing her before, for one thing. Most of the people here he has seen in one degree or another before, and she seems completely at home, but in truth Lancelot has absolutely no idea who she is. Is she Daybreak? Is she Redbright? He's half wondering if it would be rude to admit he doesn't know when she seems to catch him frowning in thought. He smiles self-consciously, eyes dropping to his food as cuts another piece for himself before leaning toward her -- lowering his voice to something softer and private.

"You're kind to ask," he says, "it's only that I'm realising I know less people here than I thought. It makes me feel a little out of place."