If Verity notices the appreciation in his expression, there's little response. Only a flutter of something before her expression settles again, and the brief visitor was neither gratitude or a corresponding appreciation for him. It was something closer to wariness or weariness.

She'd be glad to know that there are exceptions, sometimes, for a woman who prefers practical attire. Not so much that there rampaging armies of the undead. Her world had its troubles, so many many troubles, but that was rarely one of them. A minor blessing.

The staring is met with an eyebrow arching upward in unasked question. The question being, because she's from Manhattan, 'The fuck is your problem?' Another minor blessing that she doesn't say that out loud. These old-fashioned types react so unpredictably to foul-mouthed women. "There's a place nearby with safe drinks. What would be wrong with being purple or a woman?"