Greta watches him rub the scars on his arm - burns, if she isn't mistaken - and thinks about the instinctive way he'd jerked away from her, as if she herself had burned him. And all because she reminds him of his mother? He'll have to forgive her for suspecting it's not a compliment at all. She resists the urge to repeat 'probably' with a dubious lilt, but she does give him a look that conveys, I'm not an idiot, as she gets to her feet.

"Good idea," she says aloud, brushing off her skirt and untwisting the scarf until it looks like a scarf again and not an impromptu garrote. She loops it once around her neck, loosely, because it looks as if it might be too warm outside for scarf weather. Then she heads for the door - a mercifully normal sort of door, for a time period far later than her own - and pulls it open, admitting a light breeze and a smattering of birdsong.

Not bad. "Well, this is an improvement," she says lightly, stepping out into the fresh air.