There is something there on the tip of her tongue - an impulse, the itch of a face down card from a deck she hasn't counted carefully.

(It's very easy to win with her own; she's had it for long so that the wear on the backs is as telling as its faces.)

But whatever it is she holds just a beat too long, and then the opportunity has evaporated. So she trades it for the far more definitive "Good night, Richard," and decides she is satisfied with it. When it is perfectly polite to do so, she withdraws. The door is snipped shut.

The room, with its scattered assortment of things is regarded.

"Mm, he says," she repeats for its benefit.