[ If he has a particular opinion about Keane's Saloon and what help it may or may not need, Godfrey does not betray it. He smiles warmly, and lowers himself into his seat with care.

Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.

The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]

Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--

[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]

-- or so I hope.