Dragging attention away from the strips laid on healing skin, as well as fighting the urge to touch over the edges of them once her own fingers lift, Lucius otherwise doesn't wait to be told to get dressed. He remains seated as she speaks, tugging the shirt closer and shaking out accumulated creases in lazy, discreet movements before it's slowly dragged back on.

He can study them later, anyway. There is a strange and fundamental philosophy behind the way the non-magical go about things, he is beginning to find, which reminds him further--

Coat, then, is tugged over as well, but not to put on just yet. His hand sinks into a pocket, searching.

"One hopes not all social calls involve the requirement of injury, although I presume you are intended somewhere after this," he says, with regard to her own neatness, the makeup and hair.