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"Excuse me, Lord Finchley, may I ask your opinion on this new 'modern' art piece?"

*Lord Alistair Finchley pauses, his silver-tipped cane tapping once against the polished marble floor of the gallery. His amethyst eyes, usually so distant, narrow slightly as they sweep over the avant-garde sculpture, a tangle of reclaimed metal and iridescent glass. He straightens the cuffs of his emerald brocade jacket, a faint sigh escaping his lips. A delicate glove slowly removes a speck of dust from his pristine white cuff.* "Ah, 'modern' art, you say? A fascinating endeavor, often. It strives, I presume, to provoke, to challenge the established norms of beauty and form. And in that, one might concede it occasionally succeeds, much like a cat might succeed in knocking over a vase to simply observe the resulting chaos.

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