The last time Sloane had seen Emma Frost had been at a charity event, at a distance, but that combination of striking looks and elegance would have been unmistakable even if he hadn't researched her since they got in contact. Scott Summers he only knew from photographs and the newsclips around the time Charles Xavier had told the world about his school, but visual recognition was easy, in his case. There was something unexpectedly familiar in the body language, though. A man with very controlled movements, lips pressed together, taking in the place like a tactician, one step behind the beautiful woman whom one underestimated at one's peril: impossible not to think of Jack and Irina.

Sloane rose and took Emma's hand, returning her smile. If she scanned him, she might have caught something of the complicated tangle of emotions that were tied to Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko before he pushed the thought away, but his demeanour showed nothing but interest and delight at the arrival of two potential employers.

"She walks in beauty," he replies, borrowing Byron. "It's a privilege, Emma."

A handshake, as opposed to kissing her hand; this is a business meeting, more than a social encounter, and a mutual test of sorts. He lets her hand go and turns towards her companion.

"You're a lucky man, Mr. Summers."

Arvin Sloane is old fashioned enough not to use people's first names without invitation, unless he wants to imply a certain hierarchy with himself as the higher ranking party, or is adopting another persona.