He put his gloved hand in hers. Something in him just recognized this social dance so well. Whatever time Beauty was from was not a time Abe was unfamiliar with. He knew the steps, like a practiced dance.
"Oh dear! Forgive my bad manner. It's Abraham, though I'm called Abe. And tea sounds...divine," Abe said with a chirping chuckle.
"I appreciate your assistance, Beauty," he said. He'd been using the French of her name, Belle, though he didn't know if it was appropriate. The translation had been automatic. And, knowing what Oswin had said about fictional characters coming to the City, he was nearly convinced that she was, indeed, the literary Beauty whose story he'd read many times over.