The paper dog is noted with a brief smile — did he make that or was it made for him, is it terrible if she prefers imagining the latter? — and she passes the tray to him, mindful of not disrupting the carafe or allowing the fabric covering the food and making a valiant effort at keeping it warm to cling to her, as such things are occasionally wont to do.

She's curious about the book too, honestly, but in this moment she's not going to rubberneck in its direction. Instead: "I can't promise that they're very deep and they were probably part of some rich child's tea set once upon a time, but they're serviceable. Here; I'll let you finish and investigate what I've brought while I go get them."

Then he can decide how dressed he wants to be for what is apparently going to be a shared meal in his hitherto uninvestigated quarters. Once he's handled the tray his upper arm receives a small squeeze from her equally small hand and then she turns, traipsing out of the room and across the hall to her own room.

She does have the good sense to close his door behind her, softly, and knock before reentering.