He does not, to his own surprise, hasten to take the book back. It no longer feels important to do so: the seal broken, the secrecy dispelled. It is not as though he has it in him, in this jumbled and admittedly awkward moment, to calmly sink back into writing; nor does he entirely wish to, when this strange conversation has taken so interesting and flattering a turn. This is not at all what he expected from this day, and yet it is a pleasant surprise, enough so that it has a certain unreality to the whole thing.

Comfortable. It is, in a humble way, the highest praise that she might have given. To be safe, to be comfortable, to be a presence which does not inspire fear unless intended... that is small praise, perhaps, but it seems to him the most important thing a man could aspire to, at least in peacetime. His smile strengthens a little, and he sips his own coffee, settling back in his seat.

"It is a bad habit, I'm afraid." The sketching. It feels intrusive, at times, if he thinks about it too long. "I cannot promise anything as far as publishing goes - but I can promise that I will consider it, at least. And try to show you, if I finish anything already begun." It seems the least he can offer, really, for how kind she is being.