He laughs, and salutes her jauntily. "A feast, my dear, fit for our Master but left to us, eir poor servants-- presuming we can get up to it, that is." He turns enough to glance up at the surface of the table, several feet yet above his head even from his spot on the chair.

Kneeling at the very edge of the seat, he peers down at her. "A typewriter, are you? You don't look much like one."