Silver Spoon buzzes with a faint white noise that makes Robert shift uncomfortably on his chair. He drums his nails against the surface of the table, waiting, and when a waiter came up to him, he began and ordered himself a glass of wine. Perhaps the alcohol will make the night go faster, the conversation more pleasant, the smiles less strained. The sooner the night is over, the sooner he and Ms. Rosier could go their separate ways until next time, when the need to appease their parents should arise once again.
It's all very simple, he thinks. There were things expected for him. Not long from now, his father will die. His mother along with him, in a few years. He'll be all that's left and when death comes to greet him too, he'll knows that the Nott legacy and name cannot die with him. It must live on. It must surpass him, his children, and his children's children. It's the way it had always been. And his mother would never let him forget that.
But dating had always been a trifle he can't bother himself to do. He could only socialize so much until he reaches a point where he finds that trained mannerisms aren't enough and he'll recedee back to cold remarks and icy smirks.
(A part of him is thankful that his mother hasn't reached the point of desperation and frustration that she's resorted to arranged marriages. Or perhaps, his mother trusts him to find a suitable wife more than he gave her credit for)
He can't remember the last time he had seen Melissa Rosier, but he welcomes her company for now, until his mother stops nagging him with another pureblood girl from some other family whose name passes him. At least, he knows Melissa; to some extent coming from the same circles of families. He stands when he sees her walking in, as a formality, letting the waiter pull her chair for her to sit.
"Rosier," he greets her with a curt nod. He pulls his pocket watch, quickly checks the time before looking back up at her. "Fashionably late, are we?" He takes his seat. "You look well. How are you?"