If he'd had a lifetime of practice at concealing his emotional register from his body like Tucker Belmont, Allen no doubt wouldn't have balked at Courtenay's invocation of the coal face. It wasn't more than a microexpression in his facial expression: the right side of his mouth twitched downward, while his eyebrows, cheeks, and eyes remained politely curious. He was used to people who knew nothing about his people talk about them when they weren't in the room. Used to them treating him and his as political pawns while giving them nothing back in return. What did a man like Courtenay Auster know about the mines, or the people who worked them? But there was no need to interrupt; he'd find out more by being curious. Worse comes to worse, let him dig his own grave.
"It sounds like you and my sister might both have some interests in common. She's my favorite person in the world, so I suppose I can't fault you for it." Not a resounding endorsement, no, but not a put-down, either. Allen couldn't decide what to make of Auster, but wanted to talk to him more.