It's hardly the response she's expecting. The question is a simple one, if perhaps somewhat self-explanatory, but he isn't looking at her like she ought to know already that they're his, or like she's just one of any number of potential customers passing by. Edith can't quite place what it is, but the way he stares, it isn't difficult to tell that something's wrong. She draws in a breath for it, quick and sharp, her mouth curving into a frown. It would be easy to keep walking, look elsewhere, write all of this off as some strange encounter and probably never think on it again. She can't quite bring herself to, though — manners, maybe, too deeply instilled in her from an upbringing in another time, or concern, or curiosity, or some combination of the three.

"I'm sorry," she says, half a question in turn. "Are you alright?" He doesn't seem it, but it feels better to ask than to assume, not least when she hasn't the first idea what's going on.