I'd wager you've put on a stone, then. [ Delivered lazily, without any real heat. Eames isn't wrong in his estimation; there's a woman a couple paces away, arguing with her cab driver, one hand curled around her luggage while the other gesticulates wildly. She is beautiful, but in a way that makes Bond feel more tired than secure. (Espionage; supposedly a young man's game, and all that.)

The quip about smoking makes him exhale again, though it's more in the vein of a tsk than plain amusement. He flicks the butt into the cobblestone at his feet where it lands in a tiny pool of rainwater, turning from cherry-red to wet-ash in a single breath. ]

There's been a restructuring of management. [ Bond very deliberately does not say the word funeral. ] Hell of a stressor. Compartively, I'll talk all night about your Spring fling.