"Chimeric, hm?" The Socialite hummed and sat once more. "Were I a less mannerly man, I might ask in what way you're 'chimeric', but your business is your business. Is there something I might be able to do for you, or is this simply a warm greeting between fellow scholars?" They idly scratched Tularemia, the ermine stoat sleeping on the brim of his hat, between the ears as they waited for a response.