It's too chilly out for Narcissa's preferred way of ending a day as long as this - why have a garden or a balcony if one doesn't make proper use of them? - but she's set up near the broad glass doors out toward them regardless, sinking deep into the sofa and dangling her high heel from her toes, legs crossed. She already has a cigar, because she deserves one, and she could so easily be a scene from his own past.

There is a glass waiting. If he questions her choice of wine, he doesn't have to drink it.