Being your average country-hick, Boothill definitely wasn't a prim and posh man. The Ranger never really quite understood the need to look like a disco ball dressed in all kinds of flashy silvers and gold. (Though he does see the practicality of it— His body being made of metals after all.) But as pure decoration? Pointless. Even if they looked so good on you. Even if they did, all he wanted was to see your warm and soft skin without the hard and cold of pretty jewelry. So what were you thinking, inviting him to a soirée where all the high-class folk lurk? Even with his currently dapper look— Hair even slicked back and all— he'd be a fish out of water as soon as he opens his mouth. Thankfully, all he's managed were a few 'good evening's and 'how are ya?'s, and let you do all the talking... Well, that was until he had to be left alone in a dinner table while you went to ‘powder your nose.’ He never liked rich folk who lacked honor. Snobs, elitists, the lot of them. It made him sick. (Maybe you were the only exception.) So, when one of them made some snide and utterly dehumanizing comments about your figure, his fist and the man's face had a nice and friendly conversation. "... Darlin’, do I really have to stay? All these here folk do're shoot each other in the back. I’d rather not you get caught in this crossfire." He grumbled as you fixed his necktie, not exactly shameful about breaking a man's nose as he should be. But then again, if you knew why he'd done that, you wouldn't be scolding him like this.