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Lewis was positively itching to latch onto Benedict's confessed ignorance of the law. If he had his way, he would happily have launched into an hour-long tirade against the absolute mess of the medical education system in England and the detriment that the laws contributed to that mess — but he had made an arse of himself more than once by doing that sort of thing in the wrong company, and he had, by now, learned when to hold his tongue. As much as he might like to continue on with his rambling, he had talked Benedict's ear off thoroughly at this point. Better to let the conversation drift to other topics to keep some rapport with the man; he could save further discussions on this matter for another time. 

Resolving, therefore, to focus on Benedict's first question, he replied, "I have not had the pleasure of working often with artists, no. More is the pity." He could not exactly call himself a connoisseur of art — or even much of an appreciator, much to his friend Barthélemy's disappointment — but he was curious to know more about the role anatomical study played in it. "May I ask how you... began to take an interest in art?" 

It would not have taken a detective to work out that Benedict was only leaving with extreme reluctance. To be fair to the man, Lewis supposed he could hardly blame him — even if Genevieve's injuries were objectively very minor, she had still been attacked, which was more than enough to justify Benedict's excessive concern. He did not know what Genevieve's connection was to him — not a wife, certainly, or he would have heard about that — but she clearly mattered a great deal. 

It was a relief, however, to have the man gone. Better for Benedict to take some time to compose himself, fetch the brandy, and come back to a fine dose of good news. Once the sound of receding footsteps had faded their way down the stairs, the surgeon turned back to Genevieve. 

"Right." His tone of voice was still polite, but there was a slight note of relief in it, too. Far easier for the both of them to focus now that Benedict was not a constant, hovering presence. With any luck, she would cooperate a little better instead of sending longing glances over his shoulder. "Now, I believe we have addressed the ribs well enough — as long as you have no difficulty breathing and no pain with movement, I doubt you have any breaks. Have you any other major injuries?"

Genevieve was right to presume that Lewis neither required nor desired an explanation of how she'd sustained the wounds. It was enough to know that she'd been mugged — that told him all he needed to know. It was the sort of thing, unfortunately, that happened rather frequently in London. Really, she was lucky that she hadn't come away any worse than she had. 

Her mention of rib pain was mildly concerning, but given that she had clarified that she had no difficulty breathing, it did not seem likely that she had broken any. A little pain while walking was to be expected, with this level of bruising. As he contemplated whether it was worth taking a closer look at the ribs, he had to force himself not to turn his head with a disapproving look at the sound of Benedict's footsteps creeping closer behind him. This would not be the first time a friend or relative refused to leave him alone to do his examination, but it was just as annoying and bothersome every time. 

With Herculean effort, he managed to keep his expression neutral and resolved to hold his tongue unless Benedict decided to properly interfere. If he merely chose to hover, that was irksome, but bearable. Dropping his hand from her chin, he instructed, "Keep your hips steady and twist your upper body for me, would you? Left then right. Tell me if that worsens the pain in your ribs at any point."

Crisis averted, evidently. The tension that had snuck into Lewis' shoulders when Benedict had voiced the question slowly bled out again. The Bridgerton brother seemed almost uncommonly tactful; considering the reactions of most other people when this topic of conversation came up, Lewis was rather relieved to see how willing Benedict was to move on without further interrogation. Better for him not to know the unpleasant details yet. That could come later, once Lewis had built up enough rapport that he could be sure Benedict wouldn't shy away from the matter in disgust. 

He was inclined to reply that the act was far from 'simplistic,' as Benedict had deemed it, but he held his tongue on that. The man was obviously new to certain facets of anatomical study — for now, there was no sense in arguing about the finer points of it. "Well, you see," Lewis said, shifting back around to face Benedict once more, "artists stand to benefit from a working relationship with anatomists. There is much good that can come of dissection. It is the restrictive laws that limit that good."

Anyone who had known Lewis Anwyl for more than five minutes knew that the man was not exactly comfortable in most social situations. At best, he was simply quiet, awkward, and a little stiff in manners; at worst, he could manage to offend half the event’s attendees within half an hour. The larger the event in question, the worse things tended to be. Balls, by far, were the worst — they demanded not only the usual polite conversation, but the added complication of dances. Lewis had been foolish enough, at first, to assume that the only thing to worry about with dancing was the footwork, but it had not taken him long to learn that choosing the right partner mattered just as much, if not more. By the time he had fumbled his way through the first few balls of this season, he found himself almost longing for the simpler social engagements.

It had been somewhat of a relief, therefore, when Anthony Bridgerton had extended this invitation to dinner. Dinner, compared to a ball, was a relatively tame affair; he thoroughly expected that he would still have to engage in mind-numbing small talk and other such pleasantries, but at least dancing would not be part of the equation. Besides, of all the noble families in London, he found the Bridgertons to be the most bearable of the lot. Anthony could be somewhat intimidating, but Benedict had proven to be rather pleasant company — truth be told, a part of Lewis was rather curious to meet the rest of the family.

He had not expected his first introduction to a Bridgerton sister to be quite so… chaotic. When Anthony had left Lewis alone in the main hall, he had counted on a moment or two to survey his surroundings and compose his thoughts, but the sudden descent of rapid footsteps and the excited babbling that accompanied them dashed all hopes of either luxury. For a moment, he could only stare dumbly at the young woman, who looked just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. When he finally found his voice again, he dipped forward into a stiff bow and managed to reply, “Mr. Lewis Anwyl. I thought— Well, I presumed your brother would have… mentioned my invitation. To dinner, that is.”