Tables away and he was dangerous, which she sensed like a snake in the grass. There'd been a time -- a very long time ago -- when Persephone was too sheltered, too naive to know what danger meant. When she smiled at anyone and everyone, because the earth was a beautiful place and they really ought to share joy of it. Then came Hades, Dis, age and time and progress, so that in this city of steel sequoias Persephone was an ice-limned hothouse flower who liked dangerous men. Because they reminded her of home. Because they were useful.
So yes, she returned his smile with one of her own, a scythe-like curve of the mouth. And when he looked away she did not, but rather kept her chin raised as she continued to watch the lines of his changeable face. The waitstaff appearing at her side with another drink -- from the gentleman, of course -- smiled gently, as if unsure despite seeing this scene play itself out weekly. Julia hmmed in response, glanced down to her plate (pheasant and shallots with cider cubes skewered on burning oak leaves; presentation, always presentation). A few quiet words exchanged, then she was up and they were gathering her lunch to hurriedly follow behind. A waiter pulled out a chair, and Julia inclined her head before Persephone seated herself with all the entitlement of royalty.
Her wine glass was back in hand before the staff even had time to set plates down on the new table. Her voice, when she spoke, was smooth and soft, with just a touch of the aforementioned ice running through it. A dangerous man, but she was no shrinking violet, either. "Thank you. Have you eaten?"