Graves might have dined on finer fare, but they're not necessarily better than this. There's something about someone pouring their heart into the meal that they make that outshines one that's done with finesse -- Queenie possesses both traits in great measure and Graves appreciates how much effort she has put into the dinner.

An easy gesture has the china plates and their accouterments delicately lifted from their place in the hutch, glittering and glimmering, so very gently worn on the edges with use. It's fascinating, and Graves spares a few moments, a finger gently tracing over where one is chipped. So much of the items that he possesses is pristine, expensive, and discarded as soon as a flaw reveals itself, however minor it may be -- it's why everything in Graves' home is sleekly polished and new, as impeccable as its owner.

But, he supposes, they lose the meaning of these items -- none of what he has is cherished as much as Queenie obviously cherishes her plates; the pursuit of perfection does not lend itself to sentimental notions.

"There must be a story here." He notes when the table is neatly laid. Queenie has nothing to be ashamed or insecure about; if Graves wanted flawlessly polished, he might as well have dined alone back at home. Ever one with similarly impeccable manners, he continues. "These plates are beautiful."