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"I would speak with you, if you would," said Náin.
Degas looked down at the dwarf, secretly and somewhat shamefully glad that his higher stature gave him an excellent excuse and ability to look down his nose and glower.
"Aye, and would it, Master Dwarf, be in words, or in shouts?" Degas's feelings toward the dwarf had not much changed since the night before. He wished fervently that he had responded to Nain as a commoner in a tavern might; a slight to my dignity? I shall remedy it with an highly dignified punch to the face! But he reflected upon the situation with some regret; to hit a dwarf seemed so... wrong. Like hitting a very furry and gravelly child. And the dwarf was too low to get much impact behind a punch anyhow... And who kicks dwarfs?
Degas stood still, his arms crossed before him, struggling with thoughts unbecoming of one that wanted to maintain a certain image of aloofness and uncaring. He waited for Nain's response, waiting for the dwarf to reveal for what reason he had come.
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