He knows quite well she's being simply truthful, and to be fair, he does not rush to correct her, either. "If everyone would be an artist, we'd all be starving to death, or dying of the plague. You know what you're skilled in, dear heart. And you're incredible at them."

He won't list them now because he's done it before, but he still is surprised by such things -- her patience, her will, her ability to look at blood and broken bones and shattered brains for hours on end without losing her meals. That would be fortitude, probably.

"And as much as I love extolling your virtues -- there will be plenty of that later -- we should drink more than, say, one drink, if such thoughts are threatening you now. This is a night of indulgence. I shall only allow you to indulge in recognizing your perfections, which are many."