"Of course." He doesn't push, although there is a clear curiosity in his grey eyes. Quietly getting to his feet again, he pours himself a fresh cup of tea and cups it between his hands, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Outside, the storm rages on, the rain drip-drip-dripping steadily into the bucket behind them.

Sipping his tea, he shakes his head slowly. "For myself," he says, by way of filling the space in the conversation, "I came up from Warsaw only a few days ago. I ought to have been sharing this house with Professor Beregond, but it seems there was a reason he was taken ill, after all - for now I have a bed I can offer you, if you need it. And you look as though you may."