Eponine, for her part, has a story already on her lips when she knocks on the door. Or half-formed, anyway, a sort of thread of one she can spin out into whole cloth if pressed. Although, having no sort of communication such as a phone, back at home, it's commonplace to answer the door to a knock, there's also a bit of custom to it and certainly she isn't of a class to be visiting people very often. Except, of course, those she has to be ready to persuade of her own need of them.

Monsieur Hopper, as she's starting to think of him, is so unflappable in the face of a teenager at his door, immediately widening the door, that she's almost taken off her guard, a dozen explanation unraveling before they're woven at all.

She smiles, bemused, and realizes her stomach's growling a bit at the mention of lunch. She hasn't wanted to eat much, in the Home, with the bugs and moldy food, and nightmares that put her off eating at all. And she's so used to going without that she saves her lunch money most times to have for spending. "Yes, I --"

Eponine grins and steps in, a bit half pleased at Beverly's smile. "I didn't know either," she admits. She can't admit out loud that she was worried, not in front of M. Hopper, but she can admit it wasn't much of a plan. "But I was around, and I thought you must be bored to death without a million girls in your business every moment," she adds with a smirk.