[For a man who only an instant ago had seemed quite comfortable if terribly patrician in his seat, her taking that chair dispels that illusion. The straight line of his shoulders slants. He settles fully back into the chair, nigh on slouching there in the manufactured shadow of this make-believe tent he's pitched at the bristling heart of her imagination.

Trespassing is such a chancy business and he doesn't much care to have his chair overturned with him in it here too. The consequences might not be as nearly as impactful, but humiliation is it's own sting.]

So it appears. And here we are, both at a disadvantage because of it. [He doesn't offer his hand. What he does:] Maejyr M. Ralston, Their Majesties' Royal Magicians, Order of Imperial Service[—yadda, yadda, yadda, says the flick of two fingers—] Entirely at your service, of course.

[More or less.]