The ability to manipulate conversations one way was not one lost on Noel. The old man had seen it time and time again, in politicians, in soldiers, in his own niece and nephew, to some extent the girl he took care of, only before the crumbling of her noble girl sweetness. Charming facades were easier now to see through. After so many years, one became immune to wisecrackers and games of wit, swatting spiders from their webs. The likes of Orianna Fuchs, though he was fortunate enough not to play with her, grew dull, annoying, not one bit stimulating.
And, Christ, was that woman a pain in the ass. If not for the familial closeness, he'd say he was happy she were dead.
And so, in Noel's eyes, Myres' slick talk was... unamusing. Not cute. He looked upon the other with a gaze that was cold, dark, tired. God, was he tired. Simply as well, he was a man of action, not word. Which, as implied, did not make him stupid, but... he had to open his wretched mouth to speak to Myres, which could very well betray that notion.
He drew the cigar away from his lips, blowing out a gray, nasty cloud in a room that was already smoky. The air was as thick with tension as much as reeking tobacco. Noel's expression, stoic as always, however showed a hint of irritation. Even with all he knew, all he experienced in the charades of propagandists and puppeteers far more people-powerful than himself, he knew when to roll over. Not that he did. Rather, he laid down, metaphorically, never to show his belly but rather always on defense.
"You can save the pleasantries -- or the 'smarts' -- for someone who'll actually give a shit." Noel replied. His voice was low and gravelly, as it often was, with that corrupted astro-dialect. He sucked in another breath from his cigar. "You're the one for me to ask, but I could always keep walking. Take what you want. I don't care. I've only a couple questions to ask someone who's got answers, or who's seen it all, or whatever. Right?"