It's the sort of question that doesn't really demand answer from the person being asked it, but damned if Dorian isn't going to speak if not explicitly forbidden, and even then.

"You," he says, will love again, he wants to say, and manages not to, "will stay here as long as you like. I suspect you'll also help yourself to my brandy. In fact, I insist. You'll write some necessary letters -- tomorrow, I'd say -- and you'll tell yourself the things you need to hear that the rest of us aren't capable of guessing. You'll tolerate our awkward attempts at saying the right thing, also, with undue grace."

He isn't letting her go, nor shrugging her off, although his embrace is the kind one can free oneself off easily enough. Dorian separates mainly to pick up a crystal container of promised brandy, pinching a low, dainty cup along with it with a finger.

"I'm sure the dogs have their own ideas."