He grins and miracles a lovely tea pot right into existence, filled with precisely steeped Darjeeling, the nice and proper sort, hovering studiously just below boiling. Along with this a pair of matching cups and saucers, and a little plate of chocolate biscuits, just for good measure. All this he arranges neatly on the table before lifting the pot.

"Shall I be mother?" he says rhetorically, and pours her a cup, hands it over, then makes one for himself. He sets the pot back down, to maintain its own heat and keep itself replenished for as long as they feel like it.

This done, he settles back into his own chair and crosses his legs rather primly. "Perhaps a book?" he offers. "I always love a good book with my tea."