He almost answers; almost tells her what is on his mind: that it does not matter whether he deserved it or not, because the thing itself does not matter. He wants to explain that it isn't a matter of deserving, that he knows what he did, and that both the cost and the reward of it are a year in the past. He wants to say aloud that it is more important to have seen Beregond promoted, to have seen Beregond live to be promoted, than any commendation pinned to a uniform that he no longer wears. He has never sought glory for its own sake, and what is the value of a medal and words in a book, against the respect of good men?

But he says none of that, because experience tells him that it only opens the way for a longer conversation and deeper misunderstanding; because she seems to have decided that it is modesty that drives him to brush it aside, and because he does not need to convince her. He does not want to sit overlong, either, with the question of who deserves what. Deserve is a Pandora's box that, once opened, cannot be closed.

He just smiles faintly, and meets her eyes again for a moment. "As am I. There is a great deal I would have missed out on, if I had not come back."

And, at least for the moment, he does mean the café.