Watson takes a sip of his port, his eyes on Cerrit as he considers his words.

"I confess that I find you difficult to read," he says. His tone lacks an accusation; this is just a fact. The sky is blue, the sea is wet, bird beaks do not emote in a way he is familiar with. He speaks softly, in a tone that would not be overhead easily. "I could easily believe that we may not share all the same customs. At any rate, at times I am not sure whether you are aiming to be my friend or... something more."