"Yes - Rolf, of course. Thank you." His smile was perhaps a bit tight, and a little rushed, but he shook Scamander's - Rolf's - hand gladly enough, and pulled the chair out to have a seat. The man was rather younger than he'd expected, thirty at the very oldest, and 'sloppy' had been about as wrong as wrong could be; but the grammar, and, even more, that smile, did mark him pretty clearly. John hadn't been all wrong. That was some comfort against the mild gloom that settled over him at the thought that someone more than a decade his junior should be sufficiently financially successful to consider spending some unspecified number of months in a London hotel.
"When did you arrive in London?" he asked, making a valiant effort at not sounding like he was initiating an interrogation. He'd always found it difficult to shift between work and ... whatever not-work was. "Enjoying it, I hope?" He'd chosen this location for a meeting because it was near most of the flats he meant to visit - and he couldn't expect a visitor to know what he meant when he said Bloomsbury. It seemed only right to give him a general preview.