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Harry Hart was quietly proud of his teahouse, The Round Table, thank you very much.
After his parents had died and left him a decent inheritance, Harry had sunk a sizeable chunk of it into buying a quiet little café- then called Arthur’s- almost on a whim. He’d spent the next few years slowly building a reputation amongst those with discerning taste in tea and cakes, who would come and while away a quiet hour or two in butter soft chesterfields. His regulars engaged in polite, passive aggressive wars over the old wing back in front on the fire on miserable winter days. The teahouse was always fit to bursting with the arrival of first flush darjeeling every April (Harry had some very useful contacts in the more renowned estates that came in quite handy at that time of year).
So yes, Harry was proud of his respectable little shop, and he enjoyed the company of his clientele. Everyone who walked through his doors was of a type. Which was why a bloodied chav stumbling through his doors as he was readying to close late one Thursday night definitely grabbed his attention.