Alain gives her a little nod, looking up from his book, and taps ash from his cigarette into the empty mug he's using for the purpose. "I've seen worse things," he says after a moment, replacing the cigarette (filter crudely snapped off) between his lips. "You say true, I'm not at my best. But I'll be all right." His smile is small and rather sheepish, but as reassuring as he can make it.

He's quiet for another moment, then says softly, "I cry pardon. I acquitted myself poorly in the fighting. You must be disappointed." He certainly is, and it's easier to pretend to himself that his embarrassment in the Arena is the cause of his mood. Easier than addressing deep, philosophical conundrums that would have even Vannay tied in knots.