Asking in that way, she ought to have her question teed up and ready to strike the moment he agrees to make an attempt.

The trouble of course is that she has a half dozen. A full dozen. A long series of miscellaneous inquiries which she has saved up like some frugal old bat who can afford to buy whatever she likes but has been hemming and hawing on what is actually worth the coin.

(Oh, to be a penny pinching dowager, she thinks. The whim is unrelated and distant.)

What she settles on, with a rising sensation of foolishness and a slight grimace is—

"Is everything... well with you?"

The view from the corner of her eye is very sharp when she cares for it to be.