You're late. Not fashionably late, like late late. And who's fault is it?

"Darling," Grelle whines from where she's sat at your vanity, pouting at you through the reflection of the mirror. "William must have cursed my makeup, I cannot get my lipstick right."

Grelle. It's Grelle's fault you're late.

She swivels herself around to face you, gazing at you with big puppy dog eyes and she offers the red lipstick out to you. "A lady should never have to paint herself. Do it for me." There's a playful lilt to her voice when she demands that of you and she bats her lashes at you, knowing full well she's got you wrapped around her little finger.