An elf is not a dwarf, he might say; doesn't. The conversation presents an uncommon view: A picture he has not been previously certain she grasps, much less values.

(Perhaps it would do to be, from time to time, a tad less smug in one's assumptions —)

"Perhaps," He agrees. "But I'd lay odds you go mad before that. Dueling season is around the corner."

A joke.

"If you will permit an observation," He perches temporarily upon table-edge. No purpose, save that it sets him scant inches closer to eye level. "It is that you speak most often as a woman alone."