Flint steps over the dog's tail to get at the coffee pot. Outdoors, it is raining—the droplets battering here at the windows too—and from the state of his boots he has recently been out in it. Under a layer of waxed canvas, given the relatively not soaking wet state of the rest of him, but eager enough to make use of the pot and the cups to hand regardless.

"Who are we playing host to this time?"

Bent over the low table, Flint lifts the pot. Turns the filled cup after so the handle is pivoted in Yseult's direction before he moves on to pour a second.