If nothing at all, the young man did a good job of destroying the old notion that brains could not accompany beauty. Indeed, it seemed that he had both in abundance, something that both intrigued and attracted Mikkel, who so rarely found both qualities in the same individual. Certainly, an attractive person could be well-educated, an Oxford graduate could be a looker. But a degree did not always make one intelligent, nor could it guarantee insight or wit. No, those things came naturally.<br/><br/><i>Dull</i>. He tended to think that most people were, cognizant of their own mortality or not. But then, Mikkel found that his interest in others was tenuous at best and absent at worst. He simply had precious little time to spend on individuals who offered no challenge. Something told him, however, that this man would not fall into that category. Not at all. Something in those eyes told Mikkel that he wanted to know him. He knew not why, but he was not one to shy away from curiosity.<br/><br/>If Mikkel had to guess, he would have surmised it was the barest hint of a flush to those fair cheeks that made him press on. The youth was so chilly, so focused on maintaining an independent air, that to see him blush was something of a feather in the older man's cap. He could only assume - accurately, he thought - that such a reaction was not common. This pleased him greatly.<br/><br/>The younger man - Quinn, as he learned - prompted him for his name and, after but a beat of contemplation, the surgeon  turned to face him properly and extended a hand to shake. He didn't seek to strangle Quinn's fingers with his own, but he possessed a decidedly firm grip. "Mikkel. A pleasure." Unlike the vast majority of others in his profession, he generally decided against introducing himself with his formal title and family name. It seemed far too formal, even for him. It also didn't hurt that his reputation often preceded him, preventing the need for such things.<br/><br/>Briefly, Mikkel's eyes traveled along the length of Quinn's frame. Tall, sleek, well-maintained, without the unnecessary bulk of one who knew hard labor. An intellectual, then. Mikkel could imagine him pouring over books, haunting art galleries, slaving over a canvas with a paintbrush, and he was surprised to find that the thought appealed to him. Quinn was, he supposed, not unlike a pretty little antique. Nice to look at, potentially dangerous to hold, but likely never in danger of losing his admiration, for even once it failed to serve a practical purpose, an antique still looked lovely on a shelf.<br/><br/>"So. Not ghoulish, then," he mused at length, pocketing his hand once more and relaxing his stance. "I am disappointed, indeed. Perhaps to remedy this utter insult, you might agree to having a little browse with me, Quinn. The next room over has a modest collection of de Sagazan's sculptures which, if you haven't seen them, are worth a look."