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He finished his cigarette, with a slight sigh. Hand washes back his hair, not like it was out of line anyways. His tone becomes a little more raw sounding, or 'true' if you would.

"Wouldn't be here if it were now would I, Sir Fox?"

"Never can tell why a man is anywhere these days." After all, how many times had he only been some place because it was where he'd been told to go? Spies, in particular, were more prone to it.

"No relations back home to worry about, then?"

The seething hatred that came out for but a split second and complete suspicion lead the good doctor to believe that this certain nine had a rather unpleasent experience with the british services, but then again he was Irish. They were prone to that.

"They're dead, Sir." He said, flat toned, a bit of emphasis on the sir. "But what does that matter really, for a rich child practically family to the Royals themselves?"

He plays up the bitter, even if he barely cares. "I'd ask why an Irish man takes such issue with the Royal family but that's not entirely hard to deduce, being Irish."

"That so?" He asked, tilting his head to the side. People talked, even about him. Perhaps particularly because it was about him. After all, for most, what was known about Victor Fox could be counted on fingers. And the quiet, surly Nine's reputation almost always preceded him.

"You cannot blame the Irish," a well practiced method of disassociating himself with the nationality. "The British never did them a service."

"It is." He straitened, and turned back toward the ones beyond. The sign of calmly recollecting oneself if one was ever the proper, it would look like.

This wasn't Dafydd who talked, it was Elisha. Of course he couldn't give away that he knew Elisha because honestly he wasn't sure from where. Service, clearly. Friend or foe? Sort of going with the foe at this point. Dafydd didn't know these things.

"The English never did anything good for anyone but the wealthy," he spoke more calmly again. "But really, thought the accent and the £250 oxfords might have told you I were part of Britain's upper class."

"I was well aware of your nationality, sir." He could, however, get over the Good Doctor being English. It was the rest of it that bothered him. "A man cannot help what he is born to, after all."

Only what he does with his life.

He hasn't admitted to the Mi6 yet, oh no. Just that his family was in high-standing with the Royals, which was true. Dafydd knew all about that. Heck, depending on how much Victor knew about the Royals he might have even known of Eli's Father, or Grandfather, but that would require knowing his real name.

Nevertheless. He spares the man a glance. "Whatever problem you have with the Royal Family, Sir Fox, it's not mine. I'm a doctor. My Father was their personal medic, and now he's dead, and life moves on."

And to finish it off, he simply starts to walk away.

Victor turned his head to watch Eli leave, not quite willing to call the man back. He didn't know Eli's name, it was true. But then, he still knew more, at this moment, about Eli...than the Good Doctor knew about him.

For now at least.

Letting the man go, though, he turned his sights back to the sparing groups below, returning to his careful contemplation of their skill.