[ In a hurry after all, then. No patience for wordplay and coyness. That's unfortunate, but Vanessa considers letting him go. It doesn't seem too great a loss, and before anyone can intercept her, she may be able to whisk away that abandoned glass to divine further answers from it. To do so would feel cheap (still copying her enemy), and there's no promise of success.

Does throwing herself at him feel any...richer? Vanessa resists the hope of gaining any satisfaction from tonight's excursion. However this goes, even with scattered results, they come with a bitter flavor. Is that blood? She tastes rust.

Speaking again is as much a gamble as anything before it, but her heart isn't so tender as to be wounded by the threat of a second dismissal, or worse reactions. Aggression may be preferential (any strong emotion can trigger a clearer vision). If he's decided that she isn't worth his time, why not throw all of her cards on the table and ask outright? There's nothing to lose anymore, except her soul.

Vanessa steps aside with a polite nod ('of course, sir'). Her smile wilts (somehow she keeps from glaring), and her voice follows him whether or not he stops. If nothing else by evening's end, she's curious about the purpose of the séance, or if this is just as commonplace here as London dinner parties. She hopes it isn't the latter. ]

Before you go, if you please. Why did you invite anyone willing to speak to the dead? ...Were you seeking a ghost of your own tonight, sir, or perhaps already being haunted by one?