At that point, the lack of eye contact suited Edgeworth. He pointedly ignored his companion's slumped posture and his roving, heated gaze, focusing instead on draining the last of the wine into his glass (his third of the evening). Only habit reminded him to twist the bottle before lifting it away and setting it back on the table. What had been an excellent bottle at the start of the evening seemed to taste worse with every sip; after a few half-hearted ones he downed the rest of the glass's contents, the action accompanied by a rush of warmth down his throat and pressure in his head.