"I do," he'd drawled half-heartedly into the voices direction. Though it seemed as if he was otherwise paying no mind to her (more so, it might have seemed he was paying attention mostly to what surrounded him), the very faint movement of his chin into her direction would indicate that, although subtly, he was indeed paying attention to her multi-colored slips, long legs, and dark hair. Oh, and no shoes. Apparently, this must be her floor, or one she's acquainted with. One only walks bare footed where they are comfortable. A magician always inspects minor and major details, to pluck out what is useful and to disqualify the useless. A magician analyzes them within miniature instances most others would use for admiring the lighting. Not the case for our 'lost', or perhaps more accurately misplaced one.
However, an adventurous and fascinated region of his psyche was all too focused on the unique differences of his new surroundings. The other portion, of course, was occupied with those words, where they'd continued to ricochet despite him having bitten their bullet. You look lost. Was he lost? He'd turned around gracefully, his brow furrowed into one smooth node of which no delicate thumb of a future princess could iron out with loves impression, and he stood up straight and tall. It was rude of him not to address her directly and immediately, to be preoccupied with studying the floor he'd known existed, but had failed as of yet to explore. Very rude! But did he care? Not particularly. It would be nice of him to pretend he did, though. And thus, he'd moistened the corner of his mouth with a swift dart of his tongue, and arched his brow.
"I suppose I am. That elevator," he'd motioned to the closed, temperamental box with a gloved hand, "Brought me to the wrong floor. And here I am. A pioneer in a territory unknown to me; a stranger in a strange land... here with a stranger, saying I look lost." Miles grinned then. He grinned in such a luminous and genuine way, that it could either peel the stockings off of the devil's spies, or rival the moon. It's nature was arguable. Entirely subjective.
With the strong voice and sturdy confidence of a performer (hint, hint.), he'd announced: "My name's Miles. Miles Glass." and took a deep and respectful bow. "And you are...?"