In all reality, Olivia wasn't much smarter, either. What she'd forgotten was that she'd burnt the photo when she'd encountered her brother in her closet one day. That was, in fact, the reason she had a description written down in the first place. She couldn't exactly fix what she'd done, but Roderick was probably right: Olivia needed help. On more than one level, it seemed.

She swayed for a moment, blinking a few times and looking toward the exit as if it were a long lost lover, then toward her feet as if they were made of cement. She didn't want to fall or make a fool of herself--though it was quite too late for that, given the reputation she was quickly earning herself through her fondness of drink. The socialite sighed and turned back toward Anthony, offering him a slight frown.

"It's dark outside, isn't it?" she asked, knowing full well the answer that would come. It was past dinnertime, and she'd once again missed the meal bell, choosing instead to fill her belly with liquor. Olivia didn't like the dark much. Especially when she was drunk and couldn't walk. Not being able to see well hardly made the trek home anymore pleasant.

"By the way, sir. Do you have a name?" Of course, he had a name, she chided herself a moment later and blushed with embarrassment. A soft sigh left her lips and she made her way toward the pub's exit, stumbling now and then when the toe of her heeled boot caught on the floor. Walking outside proved no better.