[Engaged in discreetly organising, you say? Then most profuse apologies, for Tony Stark has just entered his place of non-employment and picking up books at random, flipping through them as he takes a few steps, then placing them down on the first available surface. Every few volumes earn a thoughtful sound from him before they are snapped shut and, for the most part, he looks only marginally entertained in being surrounded by so many books that have yet to be transcribed into a useful form (that is to say: electronically).]
You there, garçon!
[He snaps his fingers and points at dear Lord Henry, unconcerned that the mystical linguistic properties of the turtle has reduced his French to a mere 'waiter' call out. In a bookshop. Yep. Like I said, profuse apologies.]
Book-dealer
You there, garçon!
[He snaps his fingers and points at dear Lord Henry, unconcerned that the mystical linguistic properties of the turtle has reduced his French to a mere 'waiter' call out. In a bookshop. Yep. Like I said, profuse apologies.]