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She smiled as he did. Philadelphia took great pride and satisfaction in cracking the calloused exterior the former major had obviously spent so long constructing. If, for no other reason, it provided her with insight into who he once was, sating her social curiosity. At times, she found herself reflected in the man shrouded behind the pariah. At times, she desperately hoped that Monsieur Cotard saw the same, as she vied for his approval. 

The earl’s daughter stifled a huff; patience was never her strong suit. In dealings with the bratty “companions” of her class, or the self – proclaimed oligarchs that fathered them, she had a tendency to go for the throat. While such a tactic might work among the battlefield, it did little to assist her reputation. What Cotard suggested was ruthless, in its own way, and Philadelphia appreciated the concept greatly, even if it was simply not her nature. Blackmail, exploitation, and insults veiled by eloquence were her father’s speed, not hers.

Philadelphia uncrossed her legs and, in something like respect, averted her gaze as Cotard shakily placed the cup back on the lipped saucer. Logically, she knew there was no reason to be ashamed for such a malady; he had fought once, and now he was an old man. And yet, even she could identify with the awkwardness one might feel as they witnessed themselves wither and weaken. Monsieur Cotard had long reached apotheosis in her eyes, and so she thought nothing of it. 

“Do you believe you are untouchable?” She queried and stirred a cube of sugar into the painted porcelain cup. “Forgive me if I am untoward.”

One of the many endearing qualities of the young miss Edrington, beyond of course her fiery and familiar temperament that so often brought to mind his beloved sister, was the fact of her grace. She never made a show of granting his ailing nature overdue attention or lackthereof, and it was admittedly a relief to be neither fussed over nor condescended against on account of the damages time had wrought upon him. 

Upon her question, he was startled into the start of a laugh – managing, toward the end, to catch it mid way and shake his head, “There is nothing to forgive,” He assured, thoroughly amused by the question, but having no wish to discourage her through the perception of his mockery. For in truth, he did not condescend but rather marvel at the idea she proposed.

“I do not believe myself to be worthy of so much effort, ma chère,” He confessed warmly, “My time of relevance in such endeavors has long since passed – for most, I am but a man well past his time who is afforded the courtesies due for his service out of proprietary obligation, but no real feeling. I imagine most tire of me, and will me to die soon if only to clear away the memories of wartime failures faster, but few who might be bothered to hurry along the process.”

Here, he smiled, “The benefit, I think, to old age is that those who once held such power with words and ideas become obsolete enough that they cannot harm their peers. While they can certainly be unkind to the young, few waste time on each other when they believe themselves responsible for shaping a future they shall never see, through their influence over youths. As I embark in very few things in my advanced years, I imagine the only person who might turn against me would perhaps be your very father, considering I am far from the sort of company he would desire for you.”

But that, of course, was an amusement between the two of them, and not a threat Andre feared, when his company clearly brought as much joy to Philadelphia as hers brought to him.