Charlotte smiled shyly at the pale-haired man's magnanimous reply. That was soon replaced with a wince when he began to massage the ankle, but the man's gentle hands made her relax again. Why, his hands were as soft as a lady's, and his skin as smooth too! She tried to guess his occupation. The man wasn't dressed as a waiter, and besides, he had said this place didn't serve tea and cakes (for which, Charlotte was a little disappointed; nothing like macarons to cheer you up!). He might be an artist, which would explain the canvas, but how would that fit in with adult entertainment?<br/><br/>"I got it!" Charlotte exclaimed suddenly. "This is a museum for boring, grown-up art pieces!" Her father owned a few such art pieces -- pictures of boring grey landscape or portraits of ugly men and women. His guests often stopped by in the corridors to admire them, but Charlotte always thought they looked rather drab. Just what the adults saw in those art pieces, she never knew.<br/><br/>Charlotte looked down at the platinum blonde as if waiting for him to confirm her guess, then let out gasp when realisation dawned upon her that she had been allowing an artist, probably one of substantial fame and fortune that warranted such elegant clothes, kneel at her feet like a servant! In her distress and confusion, she had insulted him! Pulling her leg away from him, Charlotte jumped up, forgetting that her ankle was hurt. "I'm so sorry, good sir!" Charlotte said, trying to ignore the pain shooting up her leg. She was subconsciously aware of how good the lotion was; the pain was somewhat numbed and bearable now. "Please stand! You should not be doing the work of a servant! I am sorry for insulting your honour!" Trying desperately to remember her manners, Charlotte dropped a curtsey, "Charlotte Riddington, at your service, good sir!"