He looked from St. Germain to Varney and Ruthven, apparently noticing them for the first time. “Can I offer you dinner?” he said, and then went a shade of pink that clashed with his hair. “I mean. I can’t – quite – I don’t have proper, um, supplies for your specific – I’m sorry —” Ruthven had clearly been overcome by the same wave of contact embarrassment that had just engulfed Varney, and almost in unison the sanguivores offered two variants on “Please don’t go to any trouble, it’s quite all right, we’d love to stay, a little red wine is quite sufficient.”
