It's interesting to Abraham how much trust this man is willing to give to a stranger, especially one met under such secretive circumstances. As Jean-Paul leads the way back into the bowels of the ship, he wonders what inspires that trust. Carefully disguised strength, perhaps? The Frenchman seems healthy enough, but slight, not widely built, and a little shorter than Abraham himself. Money, then, enough to convince him that nothing in the world can harm him. That seems more likely, especially given the man's apparent lack of concern when they meet the group of First class passengers.

Abraham doesn't miss the way the ladies and not a few of the gentlemen look at him, appraising him as if Jean-Paul has brought in some mangy dog that might, if fed correctly, be persuaded to perform a few tricks. He meets their eyes and smiles, deliberately, and touches his forelock, earning more muttering and, he knows, glances at his back as he and Jean-Paul make their way towards the man's rooms. He thinks this is perhaps not Jean-Paul's first time bringing back someone below his station and finds a little respect for a man who cares so little for what others think of him.

He steps into Jean-Paul's room with undisguised admiration, pausing to drag his callused fingertips across the hangings of the bed before turning to look at the man who has invited him here, studying him with patient interest for a moment before he turns his attention to himself. Without preamble and with a certain amount of matter-of-fact economy of movement that suggests it's not the first time, he shrugs out of his jacket, folding it and placing it neatly over the back of one of the chairs. His waistcoat gets the same treatment and he pushes down the straps of his suspenders until they hang from his hips, then starts unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the ink scrawls across his chest, a pair of deer antlers under his throat and a single word, strangely, in English along the line of his collarbone.