“You’re very calm,” he remarked, his eyes shining warmth on her.
“More so in the company of others.” She replied cooly, observing their surroundings as if to cast a radar scan across the scene. “I let others do the panicking.” At the end of the sentence, she nodded in sync in the direction of a group of chi chi women scowling at poor George, the sommelier, and his profusely apologetic manager, now busily conducting a group of waiters and waitresses swiftly cleaning up the aftermath of the Spanish scoundrel’s despicable display only moments ago. A white haired gentleman who had until now been leaning over an adjacent balcony, witnessing the scene with them now walked in their direction, stroking his collar. His eyes met with the mademoiselle’s. “It was only a boy,” he commented, the white fuzzy caterpillars settled above his eyes rising towards the middle of his forehead in asymmetry, to recline comfortably aside another wave of wrinkles. She smiled warmly at him, the glimmer in her eyes stroking the downiness of the eyebrows. 

“When alone?” he wondered as he watched her eyes trail the man’s shadow, “who takes the concern?” 

“I’m never alone,” she assured him, her back against the banister. 

Ben Whishaw should feature in an audio-book. Someone needs to get on this.