Arthur.

I observe the inside of the house as I follow.
The living room is a masterpiece. The walls are painted a nice creamy white color, and paintings of pasts musicians and poets and such (like Beethoven, Goethe, Bach, Mozart, the works) hang in delicately detailed gold-leaf Renaissance frames. The sofas are soft-looking and a nice brown color, complimenting the walls. The floor is a fluffy cream carpet, and there is a (also carpeted) staircase off to the right. A magnificent fireplace is at the far-left wall.
Arthur slows and leans so he can speak to the girl. He says something to her, and off she goes, dashing up the stairs to who knows where. He then goes and sits on one side of the large U-shaped couch, and gestured to an open spot.
"Make yourself comfortable."
I smile shyly and sit, resisting the urge to simply lay on the couch and take a nap. The trip here was exhausting, and this couch is imcredibly comfy.
I try to stifle a yawn, to no avail. He chuckles.
"You look tired. How was the trip?"
"Very long, honestly. I don't even know why I drove. I should have taken a bus or something," I say, rubbing my eyes. "But anyways, thank you for housing me, I honestly didn't think I'd end up at such a beautiful place. I love your portrait of Goethe, by the way. Been looking for one like that for the longest." I add, trying to at least be friendly.
He smiles and nods. "Of course, no problem. And thank you! The portrait is actually a gift from a dear friend. I have no idea where he got it, but-" he sighs, a look of sadness overtaking his face, "I bet it cost him a fortune. I hope to repay him someday."
"A gift?"
"Yes." He stands, and strokes the painting lovingly. "We had just gotten home after being on the road for roughly a year and a half, and no one had remembered my birthday. But he did. I turned thirty that year." His hand drops back down to his side, and he sighs again, composing himself before looking back at me.
"So!" He says, suddenly as curious as a kitten, eyes shining, "Tell me about this long-await record you and your bandmates are doing. Talk about yourself. I want to know more about my lovely guest." He resumes his seat on the couch, leaning towards me, openly curious and enthusiastic for some reason.
I take a deep breath, contemplating just how much I should tell him. He is a stranger, after all.
Not really, darling. He is your host, and as such, has the right to know about who he's letting into his house. Honestly! Stop being such a brat. Talk.

Notes

Here's another chapter.
Comments are much appreciated.
Nonetheless, I'm glad a few people have taken an interest in this story.
'Till the next chapter, Killjoys. ;)