He gave a wane and apologetic smile, "My younger sister loves period drama." He said, "The accents make her weak at the knees, apparently." Which was why the youngest of the Hastings siblings had scorned the medical and scientific communities and was in some fancy London acting college. "I'm not exactly sure which Bronte is which but I'm pretty sure Huntingdon is the one whose wife leaves him and then he dies of syphilis." He paused, glancing around, "If I continue like this people are going to think I know what the hell I'm talking about."
"I don't think you're a journalist. That suit's too well cut to belong to a newspaper reporter, and I don't recognise you from TV- I only watch the main channels and they're the only ones that could pay you well enough." He pointed out, smirking as he took another swallow of his drink, "So what do you do, mystery boy?"
He closed his eyes a moment. The last bit had slipped out and he didn't want it to have sounded as sleazy as it did. Clearly his brain had frizzled out with their previous intellectual conversation and now his mouth was in auto-pilot. But he carried on as if what he had said was completely innocent and devoid of anything. "I don't like paparazzi. Or gossip magazines. They tend to enjoy digging up dirt and spreading more rumours than getting to the truth of matters." He said with a small smile, "So I'm glad you aren't one. Otherwise I'd immediately have to forget I like you."