Michel didn't care much for her first world problems, not paying much mind to her statement about the final painting. He refused to allow his own mind to fall in the same track. Regardless of any discomfort he had, which was much less than he had as a child, he refused to let himself believe he wanted to be anywhere than exactly where he was.
He only wished that his insults meant more to her. There was nothing to be argued with in her statement, though he found the portrait of her mother to be a bit typical. Stunning, yes, but he had seen plenty of beautiful women in portraits. It was nothing special. The fact that she was thanking him did bother him a bit though. Idly tapping on one of the frames, he shook his head.
Someone who never knew grief was likely to forget it. More assumptions he was making about her, but really, what else was he supposed to do. He wasn't going to stand there and ask for her life story when he genuinely didn't care enough to hear it. Why ask someone you want gone to stick around and talk anyway. "I suppose I'll have to teach you then." He tilted his head. Though his words were calm, they were cold. "When someone rips apart your life, you don't thank them. You don't have anything left, not even family. You know that, right?"