Booker sighed and stepped back, wrinkling his brow at her and smirked. "As you wish, madame. I'm sure you know better than me." And if there was self-mockery in that, well, be sure he meant it. Booker was a man who had come far, but like himself? No, not ever and not close.

"I've shown up in worse, with worse. But I've never pressed my attentions where they were not wanted." And in the next moment, a transformation purely stylized, happened, as he drew himself up. As if a cloak were drawn over him, his stance, stare, and bearing changed, and he swept her a full court bow, to the ground and back up again.

"I'll beg your pardon and then bid you adieu." He turned, with that, and moved off, stride eating ground as if it was a ravenous man. And perhaps, it was.