If not for his curious spirit and genuine reverence for humanity's impossible diversity, Walter's outcomes in life may have been much changed from the path the man has managed to forge. He owes much, of course, to his family name, and even more to the small fortune to which it is attached. Nevertheless, it is a resilient spirit of his own making that has led to the majority of his learnings, and now urges the man to the parts of this ship rowdy with activity and variety. The days at sea are wearing, however. With nothing of interest off the bow but more of the dreary same, the passage of time seems strange and meaningless.

So Walter tries to structure his days along some kind of a routine. Waking, working, reading, taking meals. The latter of those points has proven the least interesting part, save for the people he has the chance to spy on in the dining halls. For two dinners and three lunches now he's sipped vermouth over the spine of a book, and that distraction takes him now as he pushes out his chair and steps into the walkway between tables without venturing a glance behind him. He feels the collision at his back and turns, adjusting his gaze to the already-contorted expression of a man several inches shorter.

The words are too rapid first for Walter to recognize the additional layer of unfamiliar tongue, but fury is a universal language. "Don't raise your voice at me! Go and find someone to fetch a cloth."