He makes a soft sound, very much akin to a thoughtful "huh," his hand coming up to rub the back of his fingers beneath his chin.

"That they are." He offers a pleasant enough smile, the kind that said simply: Thank you. I was getting bored all by my lonesome.

He reaches out then, for one of the broadsheets that appears to have been tossed carelessly aside to the footstool he'd found so tedious to use ( he might be ancient, but the last thing Riley would ever want to be seen as was an invalid; he just needed a couple of weeks days to get back on steady feet ) and then frowns when he finds himself coming up short.

Oh, bother.