The Morbid Socialite was crying once again, though more motivated by emotion than by the strain of staring at a grid of Correspondence. He held the handkerchief up to his face, hiding his mouth and nose in a futile attempt to hide his expression, but it was no use. His eyes held hope and fear and pain and appreciation and a slurry of emotions that all welled up at the words of the Professor. The Socialite had no words in return, only the silent tears that fell from already reddened eyes.