The Socialite brightens, looking almost enamoured with the interaction itself. He practically purred in delight as he spoke. "Oh, please, you must tell me how the two of you met! Was it a secretive rendezvous? Perhaps a chance passing on the street? Did one of you purchase the last of a particular item at the bakery and, upon learning that you both wanted it, agree to share it? My heart is abound with lovely curiosity, I simply must know!"

Were they... taking notes? Oh, dear. It would seem our Morbid Socialite's current source of income was short story authorship. And they weren't very good, if anyone had read their works, but they at least had the passion for it, the energy in their every word, as poorly placed as those words might have been. It was truly an ironic predicament, as his non-fiction writing was, at times, exceptional and beloved by those that read it. But his fiction left quite a lot to be desired. And love, passion, human connection was his inspiration.

Or, perhaps, this was just another odd quirk of the Morbid Socialite's, the love for love, no relation to his writing in any way. Whatever the case may have been, they were enamoured with the Maven and Devil's love and perhaps ignoring decorum and manners against intrusion in the process.