She tuts at the mention of love poems; not exactly her cup of tea, unless they are also sad. Lost loves, perhaps, such as Shelley to Keats. Yearning is a lie if it doesn't join hands with sorrow. Vanessa's teasing will only go so far, however, not wanting to insult his honest work (if it is honest). It may be an alias, or it may be real; the line is quite blurred here, and her perception is not as sharp as it would be in London.

It takes her a moment to recall where Chile is, but she has Sir Malcolm's expansive maps to thank for not remaining completely ignorant. The name, however... A poet she hasn't heard of? He's mentioned as if she ought to know him, and that nags at her. Her knowledge of great poets is quite prolific, but then her access to anything from South America would certainly be limited.

"Vanessa Ives. Miss." She'll nod, and there is a hesitant glance to his hand before she reaches to barely let her fingers hover over his, not quite touching. She's quick to drop it back to her side before he can attempt to grasp it. He offers knowledge about this world, but she's more interested in the one they seem to share. She keeps meeting people from different worlds, and it's quite a lonely feeling at times. Even if he isn't English, she's eager for something shared.

"Are you American, then? It seems rare that I meet anyone here from the same world as I. I have not heard of Pablo Neruda, however. What tips did he share?"