You seem posh. It's a light-hearted comment but behind Finch's own mild, diffident expression, a camera clicks, so to speak, and notes it, finds it worthy of consideration. Finch happens to be very 'posh,' but he also goes to some pains (even if slight) to hide it. His suit, for instance: it's an expensive suit, but it's a quietly expensive suit. Most people look at him and guess something along the lines of professor, accountant, librarian even; all respectable, comfortable professions. But not quite posh.

So his suit-- or something else, something in his mannerisms-- has twigged as 'posh' to his new friend. Finch notes this in his organized mental cabinets, offers a distracted-and-slightly-bemused smile, lets it pass by...

"I'm afraid that's all beyond me," he says with a self-deprecating laugh at the talk of punk, or pop, music. "Taylor Swift? Is that the one who did the.... the 'tweaking'?" (Look at this middle-aged man just trying to sound like he knows what's 'hip,' indeed.)

At jack-of-all-trades, Finch smiles, slightly: he thinks of Will, Will the drifter, Will the perpetually-taking-this-or-that class, Will the undecided, a young man with the luxury not to decide. He supposes he is fortunate Will never took to black leather and tattoos, anyway.

"Keeping your options open," Finch says deadpan. "I see. Hmn? Oh-- computers. Networking and database management. I'm in technical support."