Oh, nonsense. There is nothing at all to thank me for. Speaking in very tech ical term, I've done nothing at all except delay you. [In a flurry of skirts and crumbs and her general impression, Wysteria rises from the seat with the plate in her possession. She tucks it smartly under one arm - smartly in the sense that it looks very jaunty indeed there; less so in the sense that it scatters crumbs in every conceivable direction.]

But, should you actually need help - with the filing or the sorting or sifting through the the box of complaints to weed out the nonsense or any of that -, then you should know I'm surprisingly rather good at all that. It's practically all Mr Ralston had me do, you know. --Not that you would. Know. Since you don't know him or-- [Spirits, his conversational affliction is awfully contagious. She's been here too long.] Anyway. If you find yourself at loose ends and in need of a spare pair of hands or a plate of cheese, I'm certain I can rearrange my very busy schedule to provide either.

[Ha ha, isn't she just the picture of wit and charm.]

Is there anything else?