"On the contrary, I think you're the best thing this fucking city has to offer." Silver allows himself to look the other over, pointedly, pleased. It's true. He hates London, hates the weather and the people and the pomp and circumstance, but he finds himself awfully drawn to Benedict. That maybe this whole place isn't so fucking terrible if one person is in it.

Jesus. This had to have been what Flint felt like.

"How long is it customary to stay at a dinner?" He asks.